Personal Information
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: Mycroft recruits a reluctant Sherlock to assist with finding the missing son of a former colleague.
1. Chapter 1

Mycroft was waiting for him at the cabstand when Sherlock emerged from St. Bart's in the warm June evening air, leaning against his umbrella, his right ankle crossed over his left. He was wearing a grey suit that looked slightly too warm for the weather but did not appear uncomfortable, and his expression was relaxed, calm, not threatening.

Sherlock wasn't fooled a moment. He stopped up short, giving Mycroft a glare, considering his options quickly.

Public place, right near the hospital's main entrance. And the precise place from which Mycroft had abducted him when they'd last seen each other, a year and a half previous. This was not chosen by accident, but there were other factors. He couldn't come by the flat, not without risking John shooting him or his Interpol tail reporting back to their superiors, which result in some unpleasant visits for Mycroft, Sherlock was certain. He had never been able to spot who was watching his brother, in large part because he hadn't seen his brother in so long, since before Interpol had begun to keep an eye on him. Or more of an eye on him; it was difficult to tell what all of these agencies got up to in their spare time – it was conceivable that they spent more resources spying on one another than anything else. Sherlock was well out of it, despite Mycroft's many attempts to drag him into it when he'd been younger, before he'd been able to set up consulting as a viable career.

He wanted nothing to do with the intelligence or counter-intelligence agencies. Too many rules, too many people telling him what to do. And too many well-trained people who were near impossible to read. What fun was there in trying to deduce anything about a person whose identity was completely falsified _and_ who had been trained to adopt all of the aspects of that falsified identity? His kind of analyses would likely be discouraged against one's fellow agents, and Sherlock enjoyed doing this to the London Metro officers, if only to discomfit them. He suspected people like Mycroft were not often discomfited and were trained quite early on to avoid feeling this way.

Nor could he have tolerated working for anyone but himself, not choosing his assignments, not choosing his partners, not choosing how he completed his work.

Also, had he gone this route, he never would have met John.

A good decision, all things considered.

Mycroft's choice of meeting places had the distinct disadvantage to Sherlock of no John – Sherlock was caught on his own, but he was in public, so the possibilities for raising a fuss were lowered. Not that he was above that, particularly if he felt Mycroft may be trying to manipulate him into getting into a car when he didn't want to. But he knew his brother would know that, and would also know that Sherlock would resent having to raise a ruckus, drawing attention to himself. Mycroft would give him a pointed look (but Sherlock knew Tricia now, and considered himself an expert on evading the pointed look) and pretend that Sherlock was being a bad-tempered child.

Sibling relationships were such troublesome things. Especially when one's sibling was a high-ranking secret agent.

Sherlock evaluated the people around him quickly; it was possible that one of them was an Interpol agent, but he didn't know if Interpol monitored Mycroft all of the time now, or only occasionally, nor who it would be. Certainly no one he would recognize – Sam had been promoted after The Bridge and commanded a lot more power than Sherlock himself knew about. But he did not know how much more, nor what resources were available to him. And Sherlock wasn't convinced he wanted to identify Mycroft's Interpol tail, in case it alerted his brother. At any rate, no one seemed to be paying them an undue amount of attention.

He could get into a cab, but he had no guarantees that it wouldn't be planted and wouldn't simply take him where Mycroft wanted Sherlock to go.

He could talk to Mycroft, but he found the idea distasteful.

He could argue with his brother, which would be fruitless and a waste of his time. John would be on his way home now, and Sherlock would prefer to be in the company of his husband rather than his brother, especially given the circumstances.

John had never abducted him or threatened anyone Sherlock knew or murdered small children. Plus, he was quite a bit better looking than Mycroft, which was not unimportant. Even if he did like those tedious American crime shows. Everyone had their faults.

John had less of them than Mycroft.

There was a tube station not far. The tube was more tedious, because it was filled with boring people, but had the advantage of being filled with boring people. Witnesses. Even if one person in ten was more observant than the others, at this time of day, it added up to quite a good number of people.

He turned to walk away, without a word.

"I've come for your help," Mycroft said behind him, his voice loud enough to carry to Sherlock's ears, but not overly loud. Pitched perfectly. Complete control, as always.

Sherlock paused, arguing quickly with himself.

A year and a half had taught him a great deal about what he thought of his brother and their past and he kept walking then, ignoring the threat of his cold anger melting the slightest bit. It was more difficult to be angry when Mycroft was right in front of him, which was completely illogical, since Mycroft had earned that anger. If anything, it should be easier when the source was present. Sherlock wondered why this was not the case – perhaps he needed to build some device to measure the effects of proximity and emotion? At very least, it deserved further consideration, but a long way from Mycroft.

"It's not for me, Sherlock," Mycroft continued. "It's for a friend."

This time, Sherlock did stop and turn, hands in his trouser pockets, his grey eyes hard. His brother was standing where he'd left him, still leaning his weight on his umbrella. Behind him, a non-descript black car waited, a non-descript driver behind the wheel and Anthea – real name, Karen Johnson, which Sherlock had rejoiced at finding out because it was so typical – in the back seat, eyes glued to her mobile. He wondered if there was a special surgery to correct that. _Must remember to ask John_, he told himself.

"You threaten a friend of mine, then ask me for help with a friend of yours?" Sherlock enquired in a cool voice, keeping his expression neutral with a hint of irritation.

Mycroft let the moment stretch and Sherlock was about to turn away again when his brother nodded.

"Yes," he admitted.

"No," Sherlock countered, turning away again.

"Her son is missing."

Sherlock turned back with a sigh.

"There are special police units who deal specifically with that, and probably special units within your own organization that are even better equipped. Why not put your considerable resources to good use for a change and do something about it? I'm not interested, Mycroft."

"We've been trying," Mycroft said. Voice flat, without much inflection, Sherlock noted. This was concerning him more than he was letting on.

Too bad.

"Then continue trying. I have other work here that is more interesting."

"Is it?" Mycroft asked. "Experiments in the lab, tests on dead bodies. Not a case in three weeks with the Yard, am I right? I'm offering you the chance to work on something that the police in Edinburgh don't even know about, to take it wherever it leads you. Would you pass that up? What is better here, the possibility that Lestrade will call you? The off chance that a case in London will be interesting enough to merit your attentions? Your experiments here at Bart's? Are any of these things a better offer?"

"No," Sherlock replied. "But John is."

"John can come," Mycroft sighed, looking impatient for only a fraction of a second, but long enough for Sherlock to read it.

"Unless you'd like a bullet to the skull, that is _not_ a good idea," Sherlock replied. "I'm not willing to shoot you, because it would upset Mummy, but John has no such compunctions. It could go badly enough for you when I tell him that you met up with me here. Provided, of course, that your Interpol tail hasn't already reported back."

That hit the mark Sherlock was looking for; until this point, he hadn't even been sure that Mycroft knew Sherlock was directly involved in that. He had no idea what had happened after the last time he'd seen Sam Waters and Veronique, only what their intentions were. Whether or not they'd revealed to Mycroft why they were doing it, he hadn't known until now.

He felt a flash of triumph that he kept expertly from his face.

"What if I told you this woman used to work with me?" Mycroft asked.

"Then I'd wish you the luck of it, because if she worked with you – not _for_ you, I note – then whoever has her son must have enough expertise to get past her defences, which means it is quite likely some other agency or individuals who worked for an intelligence agency at some point. For the boy's sake, I hope he's still alive and that you recover him, but I don't fancy your odds of success on that front."

"And you'd let a young boy die to prove a point?"

"Sorry? You're asking me this?" Sherlock snapped, unable to stop himself. "And no, I wouldn't, but I'm not involved in this. You don't need me, Mycroft. You need your own people, which you already have. Perhaps Karen could take her eyes from her phone long enough to provide her input." He saw Mycroft's eyes flash momentarily at the use of Anthea's given name. "Surely you can scrape together some competent agents to sort this."

Mycroft considered him for a long moment, while Sherlock simply considered leaving.

"No one as good as you," he said.

"No," Sherlock agreed. "That's true. But I'll not be baited by you into a case so you can assuage whatever guilt you feel or make Mummy feel better or try and patch things over with me. I am not _interested_ Mycroft. Not in your case, not in you."

He turned again, stepping away.

"Please," Mycroft said.

"That doesn't work on me," Sherlock cast over his shoulder. That wasn't entirely true; it often worked with John said it. It also worked when he tacked it on to a request for John. John was quite susceptible to a please or a thank you.

The thought of John cheered him. It would be good to go home and see him. Especially after this unpleasantness.

"And what would John say about you turning this down? When it involves a child?"

As if he'd read his mind.

Sherlock turned and strode back quickly, coming almost toe-to-toe with his brother.

"First, you will leave John out of this unless you want to convince me that you're threatening him, which would not go well for you, I assure you. Second, this has nothing to do with John; you're here asking for _my_ help, which I am not willing to grant. Third, this has nothing to do with me, since it is one of your people and your people can therefore handle it. Finally, I am simply not interested in being your terrier, Mycroft. I want nothing to do with you."

"Believe me, Sherlock, I do understand that."

"I don't imagine you do. I suspect you think you do, but you don't, not really. You insist on being overbearing, on keeping watch on me, on giving me nothing but insecurity and threats in return, then come to me when you need something."

"_I don't need you_," Mycroft said forcefully, his controlled, bored tone falling away for a moment. "There is a ten-year-old boy who does. My desires and opinions are irrelevant. In the three days since he's gone missing, _no one_ working on this case has been able to make any headway. You may be the only person I know who can help. This has nothing to do with _me_, Sherlock. It has everything to do with this child. Whatever sins his mother may have committed, they should not be visited on him, do you understand? I need your help because _he_ needs your help. It may be that no one else can help him right now."

Sherlock paused a moment, unaccustomed to the angry brightness in his brother's grey eyes. Mycroft smoothed over his expression almost effortlessly, but his gaze remained sharp and pointed.

"Twenty-four hours, Sherlock. Give me twenty-four hours. John can come, of course, and I assure you that nothing untoward will happen to you, nor anyone you know. I'm certain Interpol will follow us to Edinburgh to ensure that, as well. You will be given access to everything you need, and you will be properly cared for and lodged while you're there. One day. Then I will step back out of your life if you require it of me, but I very much need you to try. If you'd like to think of yourself caught up against your will in my life, imagine what this boy must be feeling now."

Sherlock drew a deep breath, exhaling it slowly.

"Three days later, the crime scene will be obliterated," he said.

"It happened in the boy's home. Other than moving the body of his nanny, who was shot when he was taken, everything has been left."

"Three days is still a long time," Sherlock said. "Particularly in child abduction cases."

"Precisely why I'm here," Mycroft replied, looking weary for a moment. "We've run out of options, Sherlock. I am only asking you to try."

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, then gave a curt nod.

"Twenty-four hours," he said. "Nothing more. If I can't give you anything in that time, I'm coming back to London with John."

Mycroft nodded as well, gesturing to the car where Anthea was still sitting, having not looked up once during the entire exchange.

"Let me drive you," he offered. "I can provide you with details on the way."


	2. Chapter 2

If he were going to be inconvenienced, best to do so in to do so in comfort, Sherlock considered.

They were travelling by private jet from Heathrow to Edinburgh, and it came as no surprise to Sherlock that his brother had access to or owned a private aeroplane; certainly he could have afford it himself easily enough, but Sherlock suspected strongly that it was the British taxpayers who had purchased this one. He thanked them in the privacy of his own mind, and thanked them again when they were provided with expensive wine and fine food. Although the flight was only eighty minutes, Sherlock was determined to avail himself of everything his brother had to offer, considering the circumstances.

He had no qualms about this, but John was steadfastly ignoring everything offered to him, and was refusing to so much as speak to Mycroft. He'd answer Sherlock in monosyllables if necessary, and was wearing an expression that Sherlock had always catalogued as Very Angry John.

At least it was better than the nearly murderous rage that had flared in his eyes when Sherlock had returned to the flat with Mycroft. Not at Sherlock himself; John had immediately suspected that his brother-in-law had forced Sherlock into something. Although this wasn't far from the truth. Sherlock had seen fear lying beneath that fury, though, born of a need to protect Sherlock from his brother and from old anger at Mycroft's involvement with the threat to Tricia. Sherlock had been most impressed that John had managed to control his temper and not deck Mycroft right then and there, although he would admit that he'd have paid quite a lot to see that. He amused himself during the trip to Heathrow with the image of Mycroft with a black eye, and wondered if he could talk John round to an impromptu fistfight. Being in the army had certainly taught him a thing or two. Or many.

When Sherlock had explained the situation, John had relented somewhat, enough to let Mycroft into the entryway at least, but not into the flat. He had drawn a firm line there and was not willing to budge, and Sherlock supported him fully in that. Letting Mycroft into their flat was too much like letting him back into their lives, into their personal space from which both of them wanted him excluded.

John had listened with banked fire in his eyes to Mycroft's brief explanation and his assurances that they had to give him no more than twenty-four hours and nothing would befall them if they left, even if they left early. A missing child was enough to rattle John, to tug at his sense of responsibility, even if he didn't know the child. Particularly since there had been no leads during the three days he'd been missing. Sherlock could see him considering how he'd have felt if it were Josephine and wanted to tell John not to think about that, because it was not the case, but he was loath to make any mention of his niece in front of Mycroft. Not because he suspected Mycroft didn't know – of course he knew about her – but because it meant there was one more personal thing he could deny his brother.

Reluctantly, John had agreed to go and had taken Sherlock upstairs to pack an overnight bag. Sherlock thought this would be quite useless, because he intended to be working the entire time they were there, and drug stores and whatnot sold things like toothbrushes and deodorant if they needed them, but he recognized that part of this was to get Sherlock away from Mycroft.

John locked their flat door behind him, turning to Sherlock, fixing him with a dark gaze.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked in a low tone.

"I am," Sherlock replied. "Although I'll not go without you. If you say no, I will stay. I'm not having him divide us."

John wavered then; Sherlock could see it clearly. So easy to just deny Mycroft, to ask him to leave. But it wasn't him who needed them, as he'd pointed out. It was a ten-year-old boy. Sherlock was under no illusions that a ten year old could not have enemies; he'd had his fair share when he'd been ten. But they tended to be other children or vindictive adults of only mediocre intelligence whom he could outsmart – teachers and coaches – not people who could abduct the son of a former secret agent. Small enemies only, and not particularly dangerous ones.

"All right," John said finally. "But only twenty-four hours."

"Those were my conditions," Sherlock agreed.

John stayed near the door, breathing deeply, the muscles in his jaw jumping. He turned his gaze from Sherlock and stared at nothing for a moment, then nodded once, a brief and tense movement.

"Right," he said, and went to pack them each a small bag. Sherlock followed him into the bedroom and sat on the bed watching him as he did so, knowing John didn't want his help – they would only get in each other's way and that John needed to move right now, to do something with his hands and focus on an activity. He also knew leaving John alone would be a bad idea.

When they were finished, John sat beside him on the bed a moment, both of them silent, just sitting, then pushed himself up and got his shoes. Sherlock followed him, and John liberated both of their passports from their small lockbox in its hiding area, just in case. He followed Sherlock out, locking the door securely behind him, and got into Mycroft's car reluctantly, looking not at all surprised when Anthea didn't acknowledge them, still glued to her mobile.

Which is how they ended up in the air heading north, England and then Scotland flying past by beneath them.

They had gone to Edinburgh on their much belated honeymoon. Sherlock had settled on it when he'd learned John hadn't been there, and had been utterly appalled. What kind of Englishman was his husband? It wasn't as though Edinburgh was particularly far or inaccessible, and it was a lot like London in many respects – urban, with a long history, utterly British, chock-full of character but somewhat fewer tourists than London. Sherlock actually enjoyed going to Edinburgh on occasion; it was like a smaller version of home, but without people like Anderson (although certainly there were people like Anderson _everywhere_, he just didn't know them in Edinburgh) and with a much-decreased chance of his brother showing up unannounced.

It had not surprised Sherlock to learn John had friends in Edinburgh, former army mates. It had surprised John that Sherlock knew people there, and Sherlock had despaired of his husband ever learning to think properly – not all of the people whose cases he'd taken on stayed in London or had been in London in the first place. There was so much one could do with a wireless connection and the ability to hack into police systems. Explaining this to John had earned a weary eye roll and a muttered "of course", however.

When they had gone on vacation, they had travelled by train, since the train took only four and a half hours with the added bonus of seeing the countryside, or at least watching it blur past. John had never been to the moors much either, and Sherlock considered this entire state of affairs to be unreasonable. He himself was not much for the countryside, although he'd grown up there a good part of the year, in his family's manor home, but he considered he needed to take John out there one day, perhaps later in the summer, when the walking was better and the days were warmer.

Flying was shorter, of course, and this flight was made easier by having no airport security with which to contend and no wait times.

He and John were sitting facing one another, both with their legs stretched out, their ankles entangled in a complicated manner. Normally, Sherlock did not like when John did this because he usually did so to pin Sherlock someplace where Sherlock did not want to be. But since there was means of escaping the aeroplane in a non-suicidal manner, he didn't mind. It also alerted him to the fact that John was not Very Angry with him, because he was willing to be in physical contact with Sherlock.

Sherlock also enjoyed the irritation that had flashed for a fraction of a second in Mycroft's eyes when he did this. Once, Sherlock would have taken this as disapproval, not toward John or even Sherlock's orientation, but to the fact that Sherlock was expending energy on someone else instead of whatever it was Mycroft wanted him to do. Now, Sherlock could see that some of that irritation was transmuted from envy and that Mycroft probably didn't even realize it. He had something Mycroft didn't, that Mycroft would not sacrifice his career for. Sherlock hadn't had to sacrifice his career at all for John.

Knowing this made Sherlock feel a stab of triumph, but he kept it to himself. He was not about to get into a row with Mycroft about John. John was off limits.

Mycroft was filling them in more completely on the situation, having been able only to sketch the outlines for Sherlock on the ride to the Baker Street flat. John was stoically ignoring him, reading through his copy of the case file for the second time – Sherlock wondered if John intended to read it repeatedly until they landed. Most likely. It kept him from having to look up and acknowledge Sherlock's brother.

Sherlock was following, nodding along when appropriate, reading the file himself, or at least skimming it. The details from the crime scene were all there, but they were fairly useless; he would need to see the scene himself.

But the information on the mother and the missing boy was important. Angela MacTaggart, forty-five, had retired from service twelve years previous and had returned to her native Edinburgh. She currently lived in a penthouse in a well-appointed area of the already well-appointed New Town. The information pertaining to her had been seriously culled, so that he had only the barest of details.

This would have to be rectified.

Information on her son was more forthcoming. David Ian MacTaggart had been born April third, 2004, in Edinburgh. He was currently attending George Heriot's School in the fifth form, was involved with both sports and music, and excelled in all of his classes, showing a strong aptitude for languages and maths. The photo included in the file showed a smiling ten-year-old with a mop of light brown curls, blue-grey eyes and a pale complexion. Sherlock studied the smile, the eyes, and found no trace of anything hidden behind them – if this was a boy with troubles, he was far too adept at hiding them for his age. Nothing in his file indicated that he had any behavioural issues either – in fact, his teachers praised his performance and his ability to interact with his other students.

When asked, Mycroft relayed that his mother reported that David had a fair number of friends and got on with most of his classmates. He had never been in much trouble at school, nothing serious, reprimands for daydreaming, although given his exam scores, Sherlock was not surprised. Even as one of the youngest members of his class, this boy would have been a step beyond his classmates. Given his mother's former position, this was not at all astonishing. If he'd inherited his intelligence solely from her, then he would do very well in the world. There was enough information about Angela MacTaggart for Sherlock to comfortably draw this conclusion, even without having met her. And the fact that she'd moved in the same professional circles as Mycroft indicated an abnormally high level of intelligence and aptitude.

There was a rather large piece of the puzzle missing, though.

"Who's his father?" Sherlock asked.

Receiving no answer, Sherlock looked up. Mycroft looked distinctly displeased.

"I don't know," he replied.

Sherlock narrowed his grey eyes, but his brother met his gaze evenly with his own pale-eyed gaze.

"I don't, Sherlock," he said, shaking his head once. "She never revealed it, not to me, nor to anyone as far as I know. Look at his birth certificate. There is no name listed there, only 'unknown'. I'm not even aware if it was someone she knew, or if she went the medical route. Whoever he is, I've not been privy to that information."

Sherlock kept his glare on his brother for a moment, and Mycroft shook his head.

"She assures me that his father has nothing to do with this."

"That's lovely," Sherlock replied. "I'm so glad she's been able to determine that – how does she know?"

"I don't know," Mycroft said. "I didn't pry."

Sherlock made a disgusted noise.

"Her son is missing and you didn't 'pry'?" he snapped. "How am I supposed to make any progress on this when you don't follow the proper leads?"

"Angela may be retired but she certainly hasn't lost or given up any of her contacts or influence. She has just has much reach as I do, perhaps more, particularly given the circumstances. If she says David's father is uninvolved, then I trust her on this. No one would know better than she, particularly because no one else knows who he is."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Not an appropriate way to run the investigation," he said. "You said I'd be given everything I need and could take this wherever it lead me. I need this information."

"You will have to talk to her about this," Mycroft replied. "I'm willing to do everything I can, but I cannot give you this information, because I don't have it."

"This slows me down," Sherlock replied.

"I know. I don't like it much, either."

"She retired twelve years ago. David is ten years old. She was likely planning on having a child at that point then, and chose to leave in order to do so."

Mycroft raised a hand slightly in a gesture indicating he agreed, or couldn't comment.

"It's likely," he said. "But she never gave me that as a reason. She was mum about David until there was no hiding the fact that she was pregnant and even then, she wouldn't talk about details much."

"No possibility she was forced?"

"Not Angela," Mycroft said. "She is better versed in how to kill a man barehanded than even I am. Anyone foolish to attack her would find it was the last decision he ever made. No, David was her choice. As was her decision to keep his father's identity to herself."

Sherlock scowled and returned his attention to the file. He read through the rest of the fairly extensive information on David, then looked at his photograph again.

He reminded Sherlock of Nicholas Merkley, the last missing child on whose case Sherlock had worked. Of course, the resemblance was fairly superficial; both had curly hair and blue eyes, but Nicholas's hair had been two shades lighter and his eyes more blue, without any hint of grey.

And the possibility that they shared the same father was an astronomically small one. To be sure, Daniel Goodnow had been a sperm donor, so his genetic children could be almost anywhere in the UK, but Sherlock was not at all inclined to trust a coincidence so staggering. He looked again at Angela MacTaggart's photo – she had hair the same colour as her son's, although hers was laced with grey, but her eyes were hazel. She had the same curls as well, but her hair was much longer, so the curls were not as tight, drawn down by the weight. Sherlock could clearly see her stamp in her son's features, but there were other things there as well, contributions from his unknown father.

If it had been Daniel Goodnow, Sherlock considered, then it would very quickly clear up any paternal involvement in this case, since Goodnow had been dead over two years now.

If this were a parental issue, it would be fairly complex. First, how had David's father found out about him – presuming he hadn't known the whole time, of course – and second, how had he gotten past Angela's defences to kidnap David in his own home? Sherlock reluctantly decided to hold off on consideration of the father until he spoke to MacTaggart and got some information from her.

And he was more convinced that his original assessment; this had something to do with the people for whom Mycroft and MacTaggart worked, and enemies she had made along the way. This meant David was in great deal of danger, unless these people were willing to hold off on hurting him badly in exchange for information. Sherlock didn't delude himself that they wouldn't hurt the boy at all – it would be too much leverage to show his distressed mother an image of her son with injuries. He was not worried about abuse or sexual assault, however. If they wanted something from MacTaggart, any injury to her son would be calculated to get the maximum reaction with the minimum outrage. One could not plan for the response of a parent toward assault. It was cold comfort, and not a thought he enjoyed thinking, but he knew it was true.

Particularly if he'd been kidnapped by a rival agency. They would not want vigilante justice as the response. They would want to control the situation.

He looked at the picture of David again. The background to the photo, a stock school picture, was blue, bringing out the blue in his eyes. But there were several more photos included for context, one of David outside somewhere on an overcast day. Although his features were less close up in that picture, the grey clouds were highlighting the similar colour in his eyes. In neither picture did Sherlock see any hint of fear or uncertainty. Despite his mother's former career, this was not a child who felt threatened by the world.

Sherlock doubted David felt such security now.

The aeroplane began its descent and Sherlock saw John look up from his file and out the window. It was the first time, Sherlock recalled, that John had flown in Edinburgh. Still, he was silent, not even meeting Sherlock's eyes, watching the city grow closer, larger, until they were surrounded by runway and touching down.

"Hotel or crime scene first?" Mycroft asked.

"Unless there's something I should see at the hotel that's pertinent to this case, there is no reason to go. Crime scene. You have twenty-four hours with me, after all. Best not to waste my time."

At this, John did meet Sherlock's eyes. He looked resigned to the coming day, snapping his copy of the file closed and unbuckling his seat belt before the aeroplane had fully stopped, as if doing so might get this over with more quickly.


	3. Chapter 3

For the first time ever, Sherlock consented to suit up for a crime scene. John gave him a look suggesting he thought Sherlock had lost his mind – it was the most eye contact John had made with him since they'd left their flat, but Sherlock ignored it. A three-day-old crime scene was going to be difficult to interpret at best and he needed all the advantages he could get. John suited up as well, zipping up the suit and snapping on his gloves with practiced efficiency. Sherlock wondered why John consented to these suits at all – his own was hot and itchy and uncomfortable. Really, there had to be a better way to make a sterile suit. Something to research when he got home.

"Stay outside," Sherlock told Mycroft, whose grey eyes flashed at that, but his brother nodded. Sherlock wasn't about to work with Mycroft around, watching over his shoulder, being pompous. He had promised Sherlock he'd get whatever he needed, so Sherlock was going to start with this. "And no cameras nor audio recording equipment. If I suspect you – or anyone else – is watching or listening, I'm leaving."

Another dark look, but Mycroft nodded curtly.

"Very well," he agreed. He took a pair of latex gloves from the agent who had been stationed just outside the flat, who had provided them with their gear. It seemed the man had been sent there specifically, but perhaps someone was keeping a constant eye on the flat, in order to ensure no one came or went from it. Although a penthouse suite, one of the lifts opened into a small lobby that could be used for guests, so that they did not arrive inside the suite proper. There was another lift, private, that discharged inside the suite, although the one in the tiny lobby, with its polished wooden surfaces, was restricted and could only reach this upper floor with a key code. Decipherable, of course, but there were also other ways. There was an emergency staircase that opened up next to the lobby lift, although this, too, was guarded by key code and alarmed. Sherlock made a mental note to check on the building's alarm systems and look for any disruptions to the power supply that may have granted access.

Mycroft unlocked and opened the door for them, pushing it inward and moving himself back at the same time, so that Sherlock and John could move past him. He gave his brother a warning glare that was filled with instructions to do something, find something, then pulled the door closed behind him.

Sherlock was not particularly impressed by the flat, but apparently John was. The doctor stopped and stared, hands hanging by his side, eyes widening. Sherlock glanced around – certainly it was large for a city the size of Edinburgh, but he'd grown up in a manor house, so this was small by comparison. Much larger than their flat, of course, but not an alarming size.

At least, not to him.

"Good God," John said, shaking his head. "Must be nice."

"Don't be daft, think of all the cleaning you'd have to do," Sherlock replied, waving a hand dismissively, casting an expert and critical eye about the place. Mycroft was right; it hadn't been cleaned up by any forensics team, which was at least good news.

"I think if I could afford a flat like this, I'd have someone to clean it for me," John commented.

"What are you on about, John?" Sherlock asked. "We could afford this, or something close to."

John turned and stared at him and Sherlock gave him a puzzled look.

"You do know I have money," he said. "This isn't surprising."

John opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again, then shook his head.

"Then why do we live in our flat?" he managed.

"Where else would we live?" Sherlock enquired. "I like our flat. It's home. Would you really want to move?"

John stared at him a moment longer, then shook his head as if to free himself from his shock.

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "This is – well, it's amazing."

"It's passable," Sherlock said vaguely. "Now do be quiet and let me work."

John kept staring at him, but Sherlock turned his attention away from his inexplicably overly impressed husband and took stock of his surroundings.

The foyer was tiled with expensive Italian tiles, pale brown, two discreet closets on either side, and an archway that opened into the large livingroom. Sherlock stepped inside, noting the size of the room and the amount of light it let in after he noted the taped outline of a body and the blood soaked into the thick off-white area rug, the stains hardened and brown, because of the time that had passed. He sniffed the air – no smell of cleaners, but also not much smell of blood anymore. He cast an eye over the furniture, some of it was spattered with blood as well.

It was all antique, carefully restored, and a proper job of it, too, so that if it hadn't been stained with blood, it would have fetched a decent price at any auction. It looked worn, so MacTaggart and her son had used this room, although Sherlock suspected there had been some strict rules about feet on the seats or on the small mahogany table that rested in front of the divan and was bracketed on either end by low-backed armchairs. The floor was hardwood, oak most likely, properly stained a medium brown to highlight the natural hues in the wood, exquisitely cared for, not a scratch or crack that was immediately visible.

Behind the divan was a marble-mantled fireplace that gave the strongest hint to the room's regular use. The mantle surface itself was covered in framed photographs, most of Angela and David throughout various stages of his life, but some of David with friends or other adults, the parents of friends, presumably, some of David in a football jersey, looking almost too young to play, and a couple more recent school portraits.

There two paintings on the walls, one Monet, which Sherlock was willing to bet was not a print, nor stolen, another he didn't recognize, much more recent judging by the sharpness of the colours and their hues, and the scene it depicted. It was a view of the castle from the Royal Mile, and the pedestrians along the street were wearing modern clothing, so a local artist most likely, perhaps someone Angela knew, or supported as a patron.

The wall opposite the fireplace was lined with wide windows, and there were three skylights set in the ceiling above them, looking up onto a cloudy day. Outside the windows on the wall, which could be covered with custom-made, heavy, and expensive drapes, Sherlock could see the city spread out below them, stretching into the distance. A commanding view, as if the inhabitants of this flat could stand and watch the world below them, controlling its movements, understanding its patterns.

In that respect, it reminded him of Mycroft's flat, or at least the one Sherlock had visited the most often, back when he visited Mycroft at all.

John was wandering about, looking at everything, but not in a critical way. Sherlock tried to ignore him – this was actually much more difficult than it appeared. He'd had to train himself quite strictly to ignore John's presence when he didn't need the doctor's opinion, because since they'd gotten together, being in close proximity to John had been utterly distracting. Even now, if Sherlock let his mind go, it would happily traipse through all sorts of fantasies about John and not focus on the task at hand. So he inhaled deeply and slowly and focused on the problem, not on John wandering aimlessly about.

But John could be of some use, at least.

"Take some pictures, will you?" Sherlock asked, walking over to the hand woven woollen rug on which the divan, chairs and table sat. There was a floor lamp resting at one end of the couch, providing the only immediate illumination, although two small lamps were set on the wall over either end of the mantle. It would be dim in here when it was dark, even with these three lights on, but not so dim as to be uncomfortable. Providing a warm, homey feel.

"Of what?" John asked.

"Everything," Sherlock replied vaguely, stopping beside the taped outline of the body that had been removed. The nanny, Hania Babiak, a thirty-one-year-old woman from Poland who had been David's nanny from the time he'd been eight months old. Not a tall woman, judging by the outline, perhaps one hundred and sixty to one hundred and sixty-two centimetres.

Sherlock noted John pulling out his phone and begin snapping photos. He sank to his knees, then pressed his gloved hands to the floor, lowering himself the rest of the way very carefully, eyes tracing the blood spatter patterns from this angle. They really hadn't cleaned – there was still brain matter mixed in there, too. Shot in the back of the head, but from not quite point blank range. Sherlock twisted his head to see over his left shoulder. If the shooter had fired from the archway coming in from the foyer, it would have been far enough.

Had Babiak not even heard anyone come in, or had she been fleeing to find David, to keep him safe?

He'd need to check the body to be certain.

He pushed himself back to his feet and moved back to the archway, surveying the scene, mentally subtracting John from the equation. One person at least, probably two. He looked at the floor, but there were no scuffmarks, not because they'd been cleaned. Whoever had come in had moved lightly, and worn proper footwear. Perhaps with forensics covers, it was difficult to say.

He walked through the livingroom into a short corridor, emerging into the dining room. Nothing of interest in here, nothing was disturbed. Wherever David had been when he'd been taken, it hadn't been in here. He heard John following him but ignored it. The kitchen was impressive – fully modernized, all energy efficient and gleaming appliances, the surfaces spotless, everything put away, except for one small frying pan, lying on the floor.

Incongruous.

Something had happened here, some disturbance. Had David seen his abductors here and run? Or had he tried to lash out when being taken? Sherlock would need to go over the entire logs from the scene to see if the frying pan had been dusted for prints.

He kept going, looking into a small private library, which was also undisturbed, the wooden bookshelves built into the walls giving the room an old scholarly air that sharply contrasted with the desk at which there had been at least one computer, probably a computer and a laptop, both of which were removed. Sherlock scowled; he thought Mycroft had told him nothing had been taken.

"Take a picture of the desk," he instructed John when John came up behind him, and then continued down the hall, past a spacious bathroom with a single skylight and a tub so big it may as well have been a small pool. Sherlock cast his eyes up again, skylights in the hallway as well. They were easily observable from above, if one could access the roof, but he was also willing to conclude that Angela MacTaggart would have these alarmed and that she herself was accustomed to watching from threats from any direction, not just at her level.

He went into David's bedroom. The files Mycroft had given him suggested the boy had been captured here, and Sherlock could see that immediately. Not much was out of place, but several books had been scattered across the floor in a manner that suggested they'd been kicked at desperately but accidentally, not simply dropped because the boy didn't want to put them away. There was a hand mark still visible in the carpet as well, small, so David's own. There were several overlapping sets of prints, but indistinguishable, as if the makers had deliberately moved about overtop of their original prints to obscure them. Probably had, Sherlock decided.

Everything else seemed quite normal for a young boy's room: an unmade bed, a pile of toys near the pillow that was bunched up against the headboard, an abandoned school bag emblazoned with the George Heriot's crest, the zipper undone, two notebooks visible inside, a desk with another missing computer and a gaming system hooked up to a wall-mounted flat screen television. Sherlock crossed the room, opening the closet, which was walk-in – unnecessary for a ten year old, really – full of clothing, stored toys and games, as well as sports equipment for football and a partially deflated basketball. He switched on the closet light and found nothing more.

Whoever had taken David had done a quick and professional job, leaving nothing behind they didn't want to.

Blast.

Sherlock paused and considered his options. It had been three days since this had happened, so he was already visiting a fairly cold crime scene. There was nothing there to tell him much, since the nanny's body had been removed and enough time had passed that whatever scents may have helped him pin something down had dissipated. He'd need to comb more carefully through the forensics report, but what he really needed was to speak to Angela MacTaggart. If this was directed at her, which he was certain it was, then she held the answers, somewhere. If this had been a simple ransom kidnapping, they would have heard from the kidnappers by now. And it would not be for black market adoption – David was too old, and besides, he was too well protected. Baby snatchers such as those would prey on children much more exposed than David had ever been.

This was professional, both in terms of the kidnappers and their intentions.

He wondered where John was, because his husband had been following him down the hall. Sherlock peered back into the hall and then checked Angela's master bedroom itself, finding John in there, the doctor moving slowly about the room, deep in thought. Sherlock opened his mouth to snap that he needed photos of the boy's room, then reconsidered. John was contemplating something carefully; he didn't often contribute flashes of insights at crime scenes that didn't pertain to corpses, but he had his moments. The man was no slouch intellectually; he'd just never trained himself to make the connections Sherlock did.

There were times, however, when Sherlock saw him working on something that even the consulting detective hadn't contemplated, and the expression on John's face told Sherlock this was one of those times.

He stepped into the room, waiting. John blinked, looking round at him.

"He's lying to us," John said.

Sherlock crossed his arms.

"Mycroft? Of course he is. Just a matter of determining about what. He's always lying about something. It's really the only consistent thing about him."

John nodded absently, and picked up a small, framed photo of Angela and David, when David had been about six or seven.

"Ever seen her before?" John asked, gesturing vaguely with the frame.

"Never," Sherlock replied. "I don't socialize at all with my brother's circles. And it's been quite some time since MacTaggart has worked with Mycroft."

"Well, that we know about," John said. "Perhaps she does her share of consulting, too. A consulting secret agent?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows; this was a good point.

"I'm just thinking – does David look at all familiar to you?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied promptly and John looked up, appearing surprised. "Like Nicholas Merkley."

John looked back down at the picture quickly, biting his lower lip, considering this.

"Yes, I can see that," he agreed. "Although it seems unlikely."

"Highly improbable," Sherlock agreed. "I'll not rule it out, but it's far down on my list of information with which to follow up. If Daniel Goodnow was his biological father, I shall renounce my atheism, because in that case, there would have to be a god having a good go at us."

At this John gave a surprised chuckle, looking back up, his brown eyes twinkling.

"But that's not what you were thinking," Sherlock said. If it had been, John wouldn't have been surprised when Sherlock mentioned Nicholas Merkley's name.

"No," John agreed, then fell silent again, contemplating the photograph again, his brown eyes thoughtful.

"John," Sherlock prompted.

John looked up and held out the picture. Sherlock crossed the room and took it, looking down at it, trying to pin where John's thoughts were going. Angela and David MacTaggart grinned up at him from their frozen moment.

"I was rather thinking he looks like you."

Sherlock looked up sharply, eyes narrowing.

"Don't be daft. I don't have any children. I'd remember that."

"Yes," John said, nodding. "Well. I wasn't actually suggesting that it was you."

Realization kicked in remarkably quickly, even for Sherlock. He stood still a moment, then inhaled a sharp breath, spinning on his heel and storming back into the hallway, bellowing his brother's name.


	4. Chapter 4

John followed the tempest out into the hall, ignoring the framed picture Sherlock had dropped on the plush carpet, and back through the flat, not particularly hurrying, but keeping up fairly well because he really did want to see how this played out. Sherlock was yelling his brother's name in a tone John had never heard before – he had never actually seen Sherlock this blazingly angry. He'd seen him angry plenty of times, especially with Mycroft, especially over the last year and a half, but nothing like this.

John didn't blame him. What was Mycroft trying to pull?

Mycroft came back into the flat, standing in the door, a rare puzzled look on his features. Sherlock pointed past him at the other agent who was waiting outside in the small lobby, framed by the closed lift doors behind him.

"You! Out! Now!" Sherlock barked.

The other man looked at Mycroft, who gave a nod in return, then stepped fully inside, shutting the door. He moved into the livingroom, where Sherlock had stopped, his face bright, eyes looking a paler grey than normal in the dim light of an overcast day that was coming in from the windows. He kept back from Mycroft, but still towered above him. John had initially thought they looked fairly unalike, but the more he got to know them, the more he saw the resemblances. It would explain a lot about David's eye colour – although neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had blue in their eyes, the grey colour mixed into David's eyes was responsive to the colours around him. John recalled the photo in the file that showed him with greyer eyes, the same pale hue as Mycroft and Sherlock. As his father and uncle, apparently.

"You don't know who his father is?" Sherlock hissed, jaw clenched, eyes livid. "Really, Mycroft? On something like this, you would withhold that information?"

Mycroft looked from Sherlock to John, appearing a touch surprised, as if trying to pin down which of them had figured it out.

"David doesn't know," Mycroft said coolly. "I have nothing to do with him."

"You're his bloody father!" Sherlock retorted, throwing his hands up in frustration, looking to the ceiling momentarily as if it could give him some answers, or at least be more reasonable than his brother. "Your own bloody son goes missing and you still think this is a game you need to play? To do what? Protect yourself? You cannot tell me that you haven't considered this has something to do with you and not Angela MacTaggart! How in the bloody hell am I to provide you with help when you won't give me the information I need to assist you?"

John could tell Sherlock was on the verge of calling it quits, of going home. He wouldn't have blamed him a bit had he made this choice. He had a more than valid point; how was he supposed to accomplish anything when missing a significant portion of the facts?

It complicated matters a lot, John considered, that both of David's parents were agents for – whoever the hell they worked for.

What a thing to pin on a child, he thought. Instead of one parent's host of enemies, he had two parents' worth. And he was only ten. It was almost a miracle, actually, that he'd made it this far without running into this kind of serious trouble.

But it would make it so much more difficult to figure out why he'd been taken. How many enemies did Mycroft introduce into the mix? How far back would they have to look? Would following up on Mycroft's contribution only distract them from Angela's? She may still be the real target.

Mycroft gave a sigh and a long-suffering look.

"Of course I have been checking leads pertaining to myself," he said. "Discreetly. I don't want to alert anyone who may be watching me regarding this that I'm considering it, if only for David's sake. If it has nothing to do with me, then whoever has him would only find more power against Angela and more information to use as leverage. I do want to avoid that.

"As for David, yes, I am his father, only in the strictest of senses. Sherlock, I've only met the boy twice. As far as he's concerned, I am unimportant, someone his mother used to work with and that's all."

John raised his eyebrows. Mycroft turned his eyes to him and nodded briefly.

"This had nothing to do with me," he continued. "Angela wanted to have a child. Given her level of intelligence and aptitude and mine, and the fact that we both have healthy genetic backgrounds, we were an ideal match. You can see that quite clearly from David's school records and the reports on his behaviour and personality. She asked me to keep this to myself, and I certainly had no interest in being a parent. I was involved genetically and that was all, Sherlock. He's not my son in any sense but that."

"And how many people knew about this?" Sherlock asked in a quiet, cool tone. John wasn't fooled for a second that his husband had calmed down; his eyes were still flashing and he was still holding himself too still for a composed Sherlock, who was much freer and more fluid with his movements.

"If you're asking whether there were doctors involved, the answer is no. We did this the old-fashioned way. Oh, don't look so surprised; Angela and I had been lovers earlier on, when we were younger."

Mycroft said this in a way that told John there hadn't been much of a romantic liaison there, only a physical one. Although this didn't surprise him – because it _was_ Mycroft, after all, not a man to put any sort of emotional desires ahead of his professional goals – John thought it was a bit cold. He had no idea what Angela MacTaggart had thought of this arrangement, but if she was anything like Mycroft, and John suspected she was, then it had probably suited her just fine. Still, it seemed an unpleasant way to live. He himself could not imagine it – he'd been at least interested in all of his former partners as people, if not actually in love with them. But then, Sherlock had had the same impersonal arrangement in university with Charles that Mycroft had apparently had with Angela. Perhaps the anomaly here was their own marriage, at least in terms of how the Holmes brothers approached relationships. He didn't know.

"Up until now, Angela and I were the only ones who knew about it," Mycroft said. "No one else."

"Best not to count on that," Sherlock snapped back. "If this is about you, then someone else has figured it out. It didn't take John long, after all."

"John spends quite a bit of time looking at you," Mycroft replied. "And yes, David looks somewhat like you, because you look like Mummy, and so does David. If you had passed David on the street, neither one of you would have given him a second glance. I agree the resemblance is there, but it's not so noticeable as to be striking."

"Perhaps not," Sherlock said. "But whoever figured this out would not have simply passed him by on the street. Do you not ask yourself who's watching you?"

"All the time," Mycroft said simply. "Particularly since last February. I warn you, Sherlock, if it's one of your Interpol friends who's taken him, there will be consequences."

"If Interpol wanted something from you, there would be much better way to attain it, Mycroft. Whatever enemies you've made there through me would not stoop to kidnapping a child – sorry, your son – to get what they wanted."

"Are you certain about that?" Mycroft asked.

Privately, John wasn't so sure. It didn't feel right that this involved them somehow, and he agreed with Sherlock that there were much better ways for Interpol to get whatever they wanted from Mycroft, because they could go through Sherlock for access to him. But, when it came down to it, neither of them really knew that much about Sam Waters – Yves Bessette – nor what he was capable of. They'd befriended a Metro police constable, not the Interpol agent behind that constable. Neither of them knew where he was now, although they occasionally got letters and cards from across Europe and once from Australia, nor did they know what his agenda was, nor his assignments.

Still, John considered it unlikely that Sam would contract or condone the abduction of a child, given what had happened to him at Moriarty's hands.

"Certain enough to move them quite far down on my list of suspects," Sherlock agreed and John was glad that his husband wasn't ascribing blind faith to Sam and all of Interpol.

It was even conceivable, John realized, that Mycroft had _other_ Interpol enemies who didn't know anything about Sam Waters and wanted something from the elder Holmes brother.

Thinking about all of this spy nonsense made his head hurt. He almost wished for the simplicity of Afghanistan, when, if someone wanted to get at him, they'd just shoot.

"And what list is that?" Mycroft said.

"I don't know, do I?" Sherlock retorted. "Seeing as how a wealth of valuable information has been kept from me! Would you like me to also work with my eyes closed, Mycroft? Perhaps you could arrange for all of the files to be written Sanskrit as well, to make it more complicated."

"Stop being dramatic, Sherlock," Mycroft said wearily.

"Says the man who dragged me across two countries to find a missing boy who just so happens to be his son without informing me of this or of any possible connections with his own cases. If you wish me to continue working on this, you will immediately give me access to _any_ other information you consider pertinent. The next time I find out you're lying, John and I are leaving, regardless of whether or not I've made any progress. How can you expect me to get anything done without knowing about David's full history?"

"If it has nothing to do with me, then you didn't need to know," Mycroft replied.

"And I cannot rule that out without knowing, can I?" Sherlock snapped. "Really, you may as well write the whole affair off right now."

At this, Mycroft's nostrils flared.

"Uninvolved as I may be, I do not wish to see David harmed," he said quietly, his voice bordering on dangerous. "What I said earlier was true: whatever sins his mother committed should not be visited on him. That goes for his father as well. If this is linked to me, then it should have nothing to do with him."

"I'll need access to all your files," Sherlock said, then gave Mycroft a warning look when his brother hesitated for a fraction of a second. "You asked me here because no one else has found anything. If you want me to find anything, I strongly suggest you begin to cooperate _now_, Mycroft. You've already lost too much time on this. Best not to lose any more."

* * *

Mycroft installed them in a suite at the Balmoral Hotel, which irked John, not because it was well appointed, but because it was where he and Sherlock had stayed during their honeymoon. It was annoying that Mycroft knew this, but John supposed he could consider it a mercy that Mycroft hadn't actually booked them into the same room. The suite was larger – John hadn't let Sherlock spend an excessive amount of his money last time (although had he known precisely how much of that money there was, he wouldn't have bothered worrying about it) – and it meant that Sherlock could kick Mycroft into the sitting room after his brother had set them up with a network of computers and had arranged for Angela and David's computers to be delivered to them.

"Don't go anywhere," Sherlock told Mycroft coolly. "And try not to think too hard or be too obtrusive."

Mycroft hadn't commented but had left them in the bedroom, Sherlock installing himself immediately at the desk in front of the computers, his grey eyes blazing, but in a different way now. John felt somewhat discomfited, because the last time he'd seen precisely that look was when Sherlock had been dealing with James Moriarty. He knew some part of Sherlock missed having an opponent like Moriarty, missed the complex games, missed the challenge of someone on his level intellectually. John was thoroughly happy the man was dead – he didn't fancy having people in the world who would strap bombs to bystanders' chests or kidnap and rape police officers. There were still people like that out there, so the fewer the better.

Now Sherlock was being given another complex puzzle, with opponents who were equally, if not more, dangerous than Moriarty. The best John could hope for, he supposed, was that they weren't psychopaths doing this for love of some perverted game, but practical men or women with a specific goal. It was possible that they were dealing with a psychopath with a goal, which was still better than a psychopath just playing around.

He supposed it didn't matter much to David.

Nothing about Sherlock's demeanour seemed to indicate that he was taking this at all personally, this loss of a nephew he didn't even know he'd had. John doubted it had even occurred to him – and how would it have had? He hadn't known for more than an hour that David was related to him, and David's own father had only met him twice. For all practical purposes, they were dealing with a complete stranger. John had no illusions it wouldn't remain that way for Sherlock; he couldn't at all picture Mycroft as a warm, caring parental figure, or even a cool, distant parental figure. With that reality, there was no reason for Sherlock to care, particularly since he didn't get along with his brother.

Sherlock already had a niece to whom he was ridiculously attached – John also knew he wasn't about to divide his attention between Josephine and a boy whom he didn't know and who didn't know him. In a way, John was glad about this, because Sherlock did better when facing only the puzzle, not any sort of personal complications.

John rang down to room service and ordered them some food; he was famished by now, especially since he hadn't eaten on the aeroplane, refusing any attempts Mycroft made at being hospitable. Sherlock had no sense of stopping for food when he was working, so he gave the consulting detective a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits when they arrived, which Sherlock could at least consume without concentrating on it. John sat on the ridiculously comfortable bed and watched Sherlock work, his expression focused so tightly John wouldn't have been surprised if his own presence had been forgotten, his grey eyes intent, snapping across information on the screen.

"What are you doing?" he asked finally. His voice didn't startle Sherlock, but didn't make him move his gaze, either.

"Looking through some of Mycroft's files more obviously than he's been," Sherlock replied.

"Why?" John asked. "Shouldn't you want to keep anyone from being alerted?"

"Precisely the opposite of what I want," Sherlock replied. "It's been three days – if they wanted something from Angela, they'd have been watching activity on her history and contacts, et cetera, which we know Mycroft's people have been digging through. They would have contacted her by now, unless no one has yet stumbled across the people in her past who are behind this. However, if this has to do with Mycroft, which I think is more likely at the moment, then his discreet enquiries might go unnoticed. I _want_ whoever has David to know we're looking. They want me to be looking."

"You specifically?" John asked around a bite of a rather good club sandwich.

"No, anyone," Sherlock replied off handedly. "They want a response."

He kept working while John finished eating then cleared his dishes back onto the tray. John wondered if he should check on his brother-in-law, but then thought better of it. It would only distract Sherlock, and Mycroft could handle himself. He didn't have much sympathy right now – as ever – for Mycroft, but he did have sympathy for this boy who was apparently Mycroft's son.

John found he really, really didn't like this idea. He tried to imagine what he would have thought if he'd found out that Harry had had children. He could only feel glad that she hadn't.

The buzz of Sherlock's phone distracted him and Sherlock's eyes lit up with a triumphant gleam. He fished it from his pocket and unlocked it as John crossed the overly large bedroom to stand next to Sherlock's chair in front of the mess of computers on the polished dark wooden desk.

There was a text message with a photo attached. The photo was of David, eyes closed, skin with a slightly blue tinge, but not because he was lacking oxygen, because of the lighting surrounding him, John could tell. His clothing had the same colouration, even though he was still dressed in the same dark red t-shirt in which he'd last been seen, and the non-descript wall behind him was bluish as well, probably concrete, John thought. Nothing distinctive on it or about it.

David's face was unmarked and he had his hands curled up next to his right cheek, as though he were sleeping, but the point of this pose was to show the handcuffs fitted securely around his wrists. John did a quick assessment, insofar as he was able, and suggested David was drugged, and that the faint marks on his wrists indicated that the handcuffs were not too tight, and fairly well lined against him slicing his skin on them. If they were police cuffs, which Sherlock confirmed they were, or at least police-standard, then they'd been modified enough to keep the boy from injuring himself when he struggled against them.

The text read:

_It's about time. Show this to your brother. Have him think hard about this. We'll be in touch again soon_.

The number, of course, was blocked and John was willing to bet untraceable. He and Sherlock exchanged a dark gaze before the consulting detective stood and headed for the bedroom door, looking not at all pleased at being right, even in the face of being able to lord it over Mycroft's head. John followed, wondering how this was going to go over.


	5. Chapter 5

"Think!" Sherlock admonished.

"I'm thinking," Mycroft snapped back.

"Think harder! As per the instructions!"

John watched the argument, removed, standing near the wall next to the door going into the suite's bedroom. Mycroft was holding Sherlock's phone, looking down at the photo. It was the only time John had ever seen Mycroft Holmes look shaken about anything, when he'd first looked down at the picture. He'd smoothed over his expression expertly, but it had taken a long moment, and there was still a remnant in his eyes. John crossed his arms – he was growing less and less happy by the minute with this entire situation. Whoever had David was not going to be immediately forthcoming.

Were they stalling for time, or playing with Mycroft? Would someone able to kidnap the son of two accomplished secret agents really need to stall for time?

"There isn't enough information, Sherlock," Mycroft said, passing the phone back.

"Keep it," Sherlock retorted. "They aren't interested in dealing with me."

"Then why call you in the first place?" Mycroft asked and John didn't miss the hint of weariness that slipped in there. Was he actually feeling guilty? Was he capable of feeling guilty? John wouldn't have believed it, had he not been seeing it.

"To prove they're in charge," Sherlock said simply. "I suggest you accept that, because they _are_, at the moment."

Mycroft's glare brightened for a second and John wondered darkly if his husband was actually enjoying this, this brief power he had over Mycroft. He hoped not, but he wouldn't put it past Sherlock, even if it was just a touch. Sibling rivalry between these two was dicier than most, and John found himself wishing he had a combat helmet and kit and a trench in which to hole himself up. If it really came to blows between Mycroft and Sherlock, it wasn't going to be slinging accusations about who was the favoured child or dragging up ghosts of old resentments. It would be an all out battle, made worse by the situation last year.

John suddenly regretted ever agreeing to come. He did not want to get caught in this kind of crossfire, especially given what Mycroft could do to them if Sherlock goaded him too much.

"You need to call David's mother," John put in, taking a single step forward so that he was closer to both brothers, but still out their range. Both pairs of grey eyes shifted to him. "Look, you cannot keep her in the dark about this. She's a former agent and this is her son. Whatever's going on, there's still the possibility that she's involved, too."

Mycroft gave him an appraising look, held it for a moment, then nodded. He fished out his mobile from the pocket of his suit jacket and John snagged Sherlock's wrist, dragging him back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind them.

"Hardly the time for this, John," Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow.

"Shut it, Sherlock," John retorted. "This is absolutely the wrong time to be antagonizing him."

"I'm not antagonizing anyone, John," Sherlock said with a sincere and innocent look that John knew full well was faked. John huffed, crossing his arms and shaking his head, a warning glare in his eyes.

"You are, and you're bloody well enjoying it. Wrong bloody time, Sherlock. Stop it."

"Am I to believe he's a concerned father worried about his missing son? I know my brother, John, and you heard him say quite plainly that he's only met David twice. He's not going to sit about moaning and crying and agonizing. He has limited investment in David at best."

"You're getting this all wrong," John snapped.

"Am I?" Sherlock said quickly, in an icy voice and John wished he'd phrased that differently. Sherlock hated being told he was wrong, even from John, even after all this time.

"I mean that this is _not_ about David being Mycroft's son, not from his stand point, at any rate. Probably from the people who took him, yes, but no, you don't need to treat him like that. What you _do _need to treat him like is your very dangerous older brother who is a government agent who is now completely at the mercy of some unknown kidnappers. And you're here to witness it. Think about that, Sherlock. When was the last time you saw Mycroft in a corner?"

"Never have," Sherlock said shortly.

"Right. And I imagine in part because it happens less often than – I don't know, the tubes running a whole day without any delays. _And_ he has to do this in front of his younger brother, on whom he's always kept tabs. He had to come ask you for help on this, Sherlock, and I'll bet the flat he knew that you'd find out about this."

Sherlock grimaced.

"Don't bet the flat, I like our flat."

"Just listen to me for once in your sodding life!" John snapped. "Now is really, really not the time to gloat! When we get home, you can gloat all you want, because believe me, I'm not disagreeing with you, but I'd really prefer to get back to London with my head still attached to my shoulders. He's been quite good – for Mycroft – at leaving us be since last year, Sherlock. I'd very much like to keep it that way. Don't turn this into something he wants to pay you back for. At least, not in a bad way."

Sherlock considered John with a cool, displeased expression but his grey eyes were bright, flaring.

"Just listen to you for once in my sodding life?" he enquired.

John held up his hands placatingly.

"Yes, sorry, I should not have said that," he agreed.

"I do listen to you, John. All the time. Even if I don't do what you want. You should know that, by now. Or have you not been paying attention?"

"Sherlock, I am not turning this into a row about me and you. I want you to rein in on how you're treating Mycroft. Believe me, I know it's hard. But this isn't about either of you. It's about David, and finding him alive and well. Yes?"

Sherlock considered him a moment longer, expression almost impassive, but touched with anger around the edges, and John worried he may have gone too far. But then Sherlock gave a curt nod.

"Very well," he said stiffly. John let out a breath.

"Thank you," he said. "Just – I don't know. Try not to be Mycroft's younger brother?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Believe me, John, I would enjoy that. Fine. I'll take your advice into consideration."

John gave him a look.

"All right, all right. I'll lay off."

"Good," John sighed. He could guess at how hard it was for Sherlock not to want to gloat, given that Mycroft had never been in this position with Sherlock, needing his brother to take a case personally close to him. He'd pinned Sherlock with dozens of personal things before, but had never been pinned himself, not in front of his baby brother. The main problem with Mycroft, John considered, is that he still viewed Sherlock exactly as that, as his baby brother, instead of an adult younger brother.

John wished this would be over soon – he had an inkling that it wouldn't be, but it would be welcome to get out of this situation. He wondered when he'd be allowed to sleep next. The bed looked inviting. In any other circumstance, he would have loved to curl up in it with Sherlock, and he was already starting to feel fatigue creeping around the edges of his brain, but shook it off.

"Best go back out," he said, nodding at the door. Sherlock pursed his lips in displeasure, but nodded, stepping back out into the sitting room.

* * *

Angela MacTaggart was not at all what John had been expecting. He'd been anticipating a torn and worried mother, which she was, without a doubt, but he'd not been anticipating as much the professional agent with a tight hold on her reactions, subsuming her emotions, as stormy as they must be, to the matter at hand. He was impressed and somewhat concerned – this kind of control must surely come at a price, particularly when the victim was her only child, a boy she'd had the sole responsibility of raising. John wondered how much she'd slept in the past three days – judging by the shadows limning her eyes, not much, if at all.

It was a bit strange to see her and Mycroft side by side for the first time, and realize that the missing child was their son, something they shared genetically if by no other means.

She was taller than he'd been expecting, despite all the photos he'd seen of her in her penthouse flat. She was eye to eye with John, which he was not unused to, being not at all tall himself, but it was still disconcerting to be the shortest in the room when one of the other inhabitants of the room was a woman. He was generally taller than most women he knew.

Angela's composure did falter, though, when Mycroft passed her Sherlock's phone with the picture of David and she had to sink into a chair, the image of the agent suddenly vanishing when faced with evidence that her son was at least alive. She stared at it, as if hungry for any detail, trying to reassure herself that he was all right, which he wasn't, not entirely, because he was cuffed and drugged. She read the text, then looked at Mycroft, who shook his head.

"Nothing more, not yet," he replied.

John wondered what kind of relationship they had now; if they'd been lovers and colleagues in the past, where they still friends? Did Mycroft have any friends? John supposed that if he did, they would be people like Angela, who moved in the same world, who understood its demands and nuances.

"Bastards," she whispered with feeling and handed the phone back to Mycroft. John watched Sherlock trace the movement with his eyes, then push himself to his feet and fetch a laptop, a notepad and a pen from the bedroom, settling the computer onto his knees, returning his focus to the screen, ignoring anything else. John felt awkward, because it was not as though there was anything to talk about, and Sherlock didn't seem interested in asking Angela about the crime scene. Of course, she hadn't arrived home until several hours after the kidnapping had occurred, and Sherlock had already gone through the scene and the file several times, so John knew his husband didn't think he could get any more information from her.

And what was there to say? She was a woman whose career had entailed dealing with these kinds of situations, facing more in a week than most people faced in a year, sometimes in a lifetime. Still, it was different it was one's own family.

The buzz of Sherlock's phone broke the tension and John felt a stab of relief, then a moment of fear that came from not knowing what would come next. Mycroft turned it on, putting it on speaker and laying it on the coffee table between them, and John saw Angela steel herself with remarkable skill, years of training backing up her reaction. Sherlock snapped the laptop shut and grabbed the notepad and pen from the table beside him, flipping the pad open, pen poised over the paper. It would be silent, John realized, whereas if he were typing, the click of the keys would be audible to whoever was on the other end.

"And we're all here now, aren't we? That's nice," an unaccented male voice said. Unaccented to John, he realized; the speaker was English or trained enough to pass off an English accent. He saw Angela's eyes snap – in the way of most highly educated and urban people, her Scottish accent was very faint, and John wondered if she'd picked it up more again since having retired. He'd run into this everywhere – all of the very well educated Americans and Canadians he'd known in Afghanistan sounded alike, no matter where they were from. When he'd been in medical school, he'd experienced the same thing. He wondered if Angela could hear something in the man's voice that they could not.

Sherlock snapped his gaze to Mycroft, asking with his eyes if his brother recognized the speaker, but Mycroft shook his head no.

"Interesting choice of investigators, Mister Holmes," the man continued, but Sherlock held up his hand against Mycroft answering. "Hello, detective, doctor."

"Good afternoon," Sherlock said coolly, jotting something down on his pad.

"Nothing from Doctor Watson?" the man enquired and John felt cold at the idea that they knew who he was. How had his life come to this, when so many secret organizations and shadowy people knew him? It was going to turn him to paranoia one of these days.

Sherlock gestured to John to say something.

"Hello," John said, feeling angry at being called upon like this, since he had nothing to do with this entire situation.

"How is London treating you, Doctor?" the man asked, casually, as if carrying on small talk with someone he knew. John thought rapidly – did he know this person? But from where? That was preposterous anyway; it's not as though he kept in contact with potential kidnappers. Nor did his voice sound in the least bit familiar.

"Keep talking," Sherlock mouthed to John. John swallowed and nodded.

"Fine," he said flatly. "In fact, I'd much prefer to be there right now than here."

The voice chuckled across the line, almost warmly, as if agreeing.

"And how's your shoulder?"

John cast another look at Sherlock, but his husband was furiously writing things down. He waved his left hand at John in a circular motion – keep going. John scowled, displeased and more than a little intimidated that they knew enough to ask about his old war injury.

"For the most part it doesn't bother me," he replied. "When the weather changes suddenly or if I sleep on it."

He met Mycroft's eyes and found Sherlock's brother watching him evenly, as if collecting more information of his own, and John felt a stab of anger. Angela was still watching the phone, as if something would appear from it, her expression intent, her hazel eyes focused. Once again, she'd subsumed her personal emotions, at least to just beneath the surface, and was concentrating on the situation as if it were not entirely her own.

"Great, glad to hear it," the caller said and Sherlock scribbled something furiously and held up the notepad. John leaned forward a bit and saw that he'd written 'American' on it.

"Take anything for it?" the man continued. John tried to hear any hint of an American accent, with which he was quite familiar, but could not.

"Generally not, no," he replied.

"You'd know best, I'm sure, being a doctor. And you, Detective Holmes? How's the leg?"

"Better than John's shoulder," Sherlock replied smoothly and quickly, as though he'd been anticipating the question or the conversation didn't bother him. John slid his eyes back to Mycroft, who was considering something furiously, no longer looking at John, but at the phone, as Angela was.

"And how is David?" Sherlock asked, and Angela's eyes snapped up but Sherlock ignored her, keeping his gaze focused on the notepad.

"Oh, well enough, thanks for asking," the caller replied. "At least for now."

"I don't suppose you'll tell us where he is?" Sherlock enquired coolly. John saw Angela's expression jump at that – hope that she immediately tried to pin down. She jerked when the line went dead and he felt his own stomach sink.

"Blast," Sherlock said, and Mycroft followed it up with a curse, his tone dark. "He's not the one in charge."

"Why not?" John asked.

"If he were, he'd make demands. And would likely not call us until he was ready to issue those demands. Someone is ordering him to string us along."

"It's working," Angela said, her voice tight and dark, like the calm tension that hung suspended in the air before a thunderstorm.

"Why American?" John asked.

"'Great' instead of 'brilliant'," Sherlock replied. "Not necessarily an indicator in and of itself, but his accent was slightly off in places. Barely. He's well trained."

At this, both Angela and Mycroft nodded. John wondered what they could hear that he hadn't, what minor change in inflection, what minute improper pronunciation of a probably a single word they'd picked up on.

It was suddenly intimidating to be sitting in the same room as the three of them. If they'd put their minds together, if they'd been able to work together, they could probably be running the world by now.

He wasn't entirely certain that wasn't the case for Mycroft and Angela.

Sherlock pushing himself to his feet cut through some of John's discomfort.

"I need to think," he announced. "John and I are going out for a stroll. You two stay here and do – whatever it is you do, I'm sure I don't want to know. If I need to reach you, I will call you from John's phone. Keep mine on in case he calls back, but he won't if not all of us are here."

"If you leave, you cannot have access to the computers," Mycroft pointed out and John fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"I do not need the computers, I need to think," Sherlock said, giving his brother a glare. "Which I cannot do with you sitting here being maddening. Also, it's unfair to drag John all the way here, only his second visit, you know, and not let him see the sights. Come, John," he said, slipping the notepad and pen into his suit jacket pocket. "Let's go."


	6. Chapter 6

"Where are we going?" John asked when they stepped out of the hotel. It was coming on dusk, almost nine, although the sun wouldn't fully set for about another hour. A long day made even longer – it seemed difficult to believe that only that morning, he'd had breakfast as usual with his husband before heading into the clinic for a shortened Friday workday, Sherlock heading off to St. Bart's at the same time that John left. A bit surreal that now they were in Edinburgh, trying to chase down a missing child, a nephew – albeit by marriage – that he hadn't even known until that afternoon that he had.

John envied the man from that morning, who had read his paper and eaten his breakfast without any knowledge or consideration that this was even a possibility.

"Hush," Sherlock replied, eyes fixed ahead of him. "I'm trying to think."

John sighed, but quietly, falling into step with his husband. To his surprise, Sherlock hailed them a cab, despite his insistence that he wanted to walk and think.

"Thought this was a stroll?" John asked.

"It will be," Sherlock replied. "Do be quiet, John, you're distracting me."

He directed the cabbie to take them to the Royal Mile, a short ride of only about five minutes. Sherlock paid and hustled John out into the cool evening air. John was glad he'd brought a light jacket, at least, because although it wasn't cold, it was going to be uncomfortable without one as the sun set.

"Now what?" John asked.

"How many times do I have to tell you to hush?" Sherlock asked. "I'm thinking."

John rolled his eyes and followed Sherlock up the street until they reached a ghost tours booth, where Sherlock stopped and purchased two tickets.

"A ghost tour?" John asked. "Now?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "But not now, in ten minutes. Come on, let's get a coffee."

John hesitated at the idea of so much caffeine so late in the day, then decided it was probably worth it; he was unlikely to get any real sleep any time soon. Sherlock wouldn't notice, of course, but he himself would. He thought longingly of the large and comfortable bed back in their suite at the hotel and wished he could curl up on it and do away with Mycroft and his problems.

They found a café and got two take away coffees, sipping them silently on the way back to meet up with the ghost tour group. John wondered what was going on – Sherlock certainly had a reason for this, since he didn't believe in ghosts or anything supernatural, of course, and it seemed an inexplicably odd thing to do when trying to consider the location of a missing boy and who may have abducted him. But he held his tongue, so as not to get reprimanded again about letting Sherlock think.

The crowd was all tourists, talking and laughing in groups of twos or threes, looking eager to start this adventure. The last time they'd been to Edinburgh – which had been far preferable to this trip, all things considered – Sherlock had arranged with one of the many people he oh-so-coincidentally knew for a private tour of the vaults beneath the city. John wondered if this was what he was after again, access to the vaults, because that was where a majority of this tour took place.

The crowd was large enough that it would be a good size once they got underground. Sherlock kept them hanging near the back, being unobtrusive, sipping their coffees. John listened with only half an ear to the tour guide when he started with a history of the city and some of the local legends. They were led past an old church and given its ghost lore, then to a supposedly haunted pub and old hotel that was now divided into flats and other businesses. Sherlock seemed to be paying attention, bright eyed and interested, smiling along with all of the other tourists, laughing in the right places, not at all conspicuous.

John wondered what his game was.

Eventually, they were taken down into the old vaults and Sherlock maintained their position at the back of the group, looking about with interest, as if he'd never been down there before. Certainly, the last time they were there, they were in a different area of the vaults, so John kept a sharp eye out when they passed by darkened chambers and hallways heading off in other directions that may or may not have been dead ends. He was confident Sherlock had a map of the entire system in his mind, which was good, because one wrong turn and John would have spent an eternity wandering down there, perhaps becoming one of the ghosts himself. The thought almost made him smile, until he recalled what they were supposed to be doing.

About ten minutes in, as the group was led down a corridor and around a corner to visit an old wine cellar, Sherlock put a hand on John's arm and stepped them both neatly into a darkened, shadowed room. He pressed a finger to John's lips, listening, then hustled them out again and back down the hall in the direction from which they'd come, then down a corridor they hadn't used, slipping them into another room, smaller by the feel of the air around them, although completely dark. John strained to see something; he wasn't used to this intensity of darkness and found it somewhat uncomfortable. Sherlock put his fingertips against John's lips again, which John normally would have liked, had it not been done to shut him up.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" he hissed when Sherlock released him. "They're going to notice we're gone."

"No," Sherlock said. "We weren't interesting. No questions, at the back of a large group, and the tour guide was more interested in the trio of Dutch girls flirting with him and asking him nonsense about how many ghosts he'd seen. We're fine."

"Well then can we go somewhere where it isn't pitch dark?" John asked.

"Give it a few minutes. Finish your coffee," Sherlock replied.

John did that, waiting. Finally, he sighed.

"What's this about?" he asked, starting to run low on patience. He was used to Sherlock's eccentricities and with trying to keep up with him, but he wasn't used to being hauled off to another country to deal with something Mycroft needed resolved on top of dealing with Sherlock's normal behaviour on a case.

"I told you, I need to think."

"I understand that. Why down here?"

"No mobile service."

"So what, Mycroft can't call us? That's brilliant, Sherlock, what if the kidnappers call again and he needs to reach us?"

John could almost see the irritated expression Sherlock flashed at him through the darkness.

"They won't. I did say that. Keep up, John. They want to talk to us when we're all there."

"But why?"

"Not sure yet," Sherlock replied. John wondered if he was chewing on his lower lip. "But no, I mean without mobile service we can't be tracked, and these vaults are unlikely to be monitored or bugged. And we're alone, no pedestrians, so we're not going to be overheard."

"Well, that's lovely," John said dryly.

"Chin up, John, it's not that bad," Sherlock said.

"Not for us," John replied darkly. "For David it is."

"I haven't forgotten about him," Sherlock admonished. "Come, let's go."

He lead them back out, John shoving his empty coffee cup into his pocket so he could hold one of Sherlock's hands and trace the fingers of the other along the stone wall until it was light enough to properly see. Sherlock didn't have this problem – probably memorized the feel of the layout on the way in, John thought. He found them another room, one that was lit tangentially from the lamps in the corridor and that mercifully also had some stone benches built into the walls. John sat down, but Sherlock paced the short length of the floor, thinking.

"CIA?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock said, tapping his long fingers lightly against his lips. "This is too personal. Why would they play games? If the CIA needed something from Mycroft, they could negotiate for it easily without resorting to kidnapping and all of this nonsense. I'm certain all of these agencies have bargaining chips they can use with one another, and they'd not want to have either of us dragged into it. Too messy. I think this also rules out the other intelligence agencies, CSIS, Europol, Interpol, MI6, et cetera."

"Then who?" John asked.

"Not sure, a private individual who may have had something to do with them once. Someone who can hire other former agents. But I'm more concerned about why he was asking you so many questions."

"He doesn't sound familiar," John said. "I really hope it's not someone I know."

Sherlock shook his head.

"I doubt that," he agreed. "Too coincidental. He's playing with us, John, so whatever he was asking you, he has a reason for it."

"Why would some American care about what I think about London? Or about my shoulder?"

"No idea," Sherlock said. "I'm working on it. I suppose he also could have been Canadian, yes? Their accents are similar, as are their expressions."

"I don't think so," John replied. Sherlock stopped pacing then, giving him a quizzical look. "A lot of the Canadians I worked with in Afghanistan picked up our slang when they spent long periods of time with us. Not all of them, but a lot more than the Americans. I think it's a Commonwealth identity thing. If he were Canadian, I'd say it's odds on he'd have said 'brilliant' instead of 'great', given that he was speaking with what I thought was a quite good English accent."

"It was quite good," Sherlock agreed. "And that was very astute, John, I _am _impressed."

John's lips twitched into a smile.

"I'm not a complete lackwit, you know," he replied.

Sherlock snorted.

"Clearly. If you were, I'd have nothing to do with you. Now let me think."

John lapsed back into silence, watching his husband pace.

"You worked with Americans in Afghanistan," Sherlock said suddenly, stopping again.

"Yes," John replied, nodding. "Among others."

"He asked how London was treating you, knowing where you'd been. He asked about your shoulder, and what you took for it. And then my leg."

John nodded again.

"Take off your jacket," Sherlock instructed.

"Sorry?"

"Your jacket. Take it off. And your shirt."

"Do you really think this is the right time to shag me?" John asked.

Sherlock shot him a glare.

"Will you just do as I say?" he demanded. "We can save the fun for later. I need to see your shoulder."

Hesitantly, John shrugged off his jacket then unbuttoned his shirt, laying it on top of his coat beside him on the stone bench. Sherlock motioned him to stand up, so he did, feeling slightly chilled in the cool air of the stone vaults. And more than a little exposed.

Sherlock stepped over to him, putting one hand gently on John's head and tipping it to the right carefully, eyes focused on the scar. He ran his fingers over the old wound lightly and John repressed a shudder. He felt even more exposed now, and somewhat vulnerable, and he couldn't remember the last time Sherlock had examined him so critically for reasons that were not personal. And especially not in a potentially public place.

Normally, the feel of Sherlock's fingers caressing his skin would be welcome, but it was not entirely so this time. John felt goosebumps stand up on his arms that weren't only a result of feeling chilled. He kept his eyes trained on Sherlock's face, but the consulting detective was deep in thought, gazing at John's old wound.

"How much ibuprofen do you take for it, and how often?" Sherlock asked, not raising his eyes.

"Um," John said, biting his lip, wishing he could put his shirt back on. "Usually two when I need it, three if it's really bad. But only when we get a bad storm or I've slept on it, so what, maybe once a month, month and a half? More in the winter when it snows."

Sherlock rested his hand on John's shoulder, lightly, his palm crossing John's clavicle, his fingers resting against the scar. John was aware of the faintest of pressures, the warmth from Sherlock's hand against his skin, contrasting the cool air in the vaults.

"How much would it take for you to need morphine for it?" Sherlock asked.

A jolt shot down John's spine and he froze, his breathing hitching. He was all too aware of Sherlock's attitude toward experimentation and getting answers to his questions by any means necessary. And of his hand, resting right over John's old injury.

He remembered Moriarty's fingers digging into the scar tissue, reinjuring him, how much it had hurt, the hot, white pain from which there was no hiding, no escape, no distraction, and Moriarty's complete disinterest in it. Cool, calculating eyes, after a result, nothing more.

The same way Sherlock was looking at him now.

Sherlock moved his hands suddenly, pulling them away and stepping back, holding his palms out. John stayed frozen for a moment, then stepped back himself, repressing a shudder with a glare. For a moment, he couldn't speak, then swallowed and forced his voice to work.

"Don't you ever, _ever_ do that again," he said unsteadily, snatching his shirt. "Ever."

He managed to get his shirt back on, hands trembling somewhat as he forced them to move properly.

"I wasn't going to in the first place," Sherlock said. "I wouldn't, John."

John let out a shaky breath, half wondering if he believed Sherlock about that. But the expression on Sherlock's face, the shock at realizing what John thought he'd been about to do, was enough to convince him. John raked his hands through his hair, then nodded.

"Good," he said, getting his voice back under control. "Just, warn me or something next time. Or just make it so there's no next time."

"I still need you to tell me how much it would take for you to use morphine," Sherlock replied quietly.

John glared at him.

"A lot. Pretty much what Moriarty did it to, Sherlock. I don't like morphine. I wouldn't use it just for pain, not anymore, because it's never that bad."

"How often did you use it after it was injured? When you got back to England, I mean, not while you were in the hospital in Afghanistan."

"Just over a month," John said. "Then I had to start tapering off. It was that, or be an addict."

Sherlock nodded, his movement slow, as it to avoid startling John.

"And I was given it when I was in the hospital, almost up until I left."

"Yes, I remember. So? What has this got to do with anything?"

"Morphine is an opiate derivative. A high percentage of opiates come from Afghanistan, although a good portion of that is sold as heroin, of course."

"And?" John pressed.

"He was pointing us to Afghanistan," Sherlock said. "John, when you were there, did you work with any of the American mercenary organizations?"

"Sometimes," John replied, nodding.

"What were they like?"

"Generally fine, just soldiers doing their job, but someone else was paying their wages. You'd get the occasional nut job, but their companies usually dealt them with pretty quickly. No one wants a loose cannon in that kind of situation, no matter who you work for."

"What kind of training did they have?"

"Same as most military, if not better, I think," John replied. "A lot of them were former military getting paid more. Why?"

"I think that's what we're dealing with," Sherlock said. "At least, I think that's who our caller is. Not the person behind all of this, but it gets us some information."

"Are you serious?" John asked.

"Completely," Sherlock replied. "We're dealing with someone well-trained, well-equipped, who could get into and out of a former agent's highly secured home, wit her son, without alerting anyone, who would be able to abduct a child professionally and without qualms and kill whomever was in his way, and who is also used to taking orders. Unfortunately, it may also be that we're dealing with one of those men you said were dismissed by their companies, someone who needed a new line of work and was used to obeying commands for good money."

John felt a chill go through him that had nothing to do with the cool air in the vaults.

"Not good news for David," he said.

"Not necessarily," Sherlock countered. "This man is following orders. Whoever is behind this still wants something from Mycroft, and won't get it if David is killed. Come, we need to go back. They'll need to know about this."


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock stopped John near the entrance to the vaults, before they emerged back onto the street, one hand very lightly on John's right arm, almost hesitantly. John paused and looked up, keeping a sigh to himself. Sherlock's grey eyes were dim in the low lighting.

"That was remiss of me. I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry."

John closed his eyes momentarily, then nodded once, to avoid arguing about it. He didn't have the energy for that. It had rattled him more than he wanted to admit. Not because he actually thought Sherlock would hurt him, not deliberately, but that he'd simply forgotten that John's old wound could make him vulnerable. It was a very Sherlock thing to do, but that didn't mean John had to like it.

Sherlock searched John's brown eyes, his own grey ones flickering rapidly. John sighed, then ran his fingers once through Sherlock's hair, a sign that he would forgive him, if he hadn't quite done so yet. Sherlock looked relieved, and John knew he'd probably be berating himself for slipping up, which he hated doing.

"Come on," John said. "There's still a boy who needs us."

Sherlock looked as if he might say something more, but then nodded and followed John up the steps into the Edinburgh evening. They hailed a cab, travelling back to the hotel in silence.

They arrived back at the suite to find that Mycroft had liberated two of the computers – a laptop and desktop – from the bedroom, installed them at the desk in the sitting room and was poring through information, his grey eyes dark with concentration. He glanced up at them when they came in, then returned his attention to the monitors.

Angela was standing by one of the windows overlooking the city, arms folded across her stomach, her profile tight. John could see she'd been crying and was surprised, then wondered at himself about that. Of course she was distraught. Even if she was trained not to show it, she would still feel it, particularly when it pertained to her missing son. She kept her gaze from Sherlock and John when they came in, but listened to Sherlock when he filled them in on his deductions.

When he'd finished, Mycroft leaned back in his chair, shaking his head.

"I've not worked with any American mercenary groups," he said. "Not that they couldn't have been hired by someone working against me, but I'm afraid it doesn't get us much, does it?"

"That depends on if you have any enemies in Afghanistan," Sherlock pointed out.

"Other than the whole of the Taliban and the fact that I'm British?" Mycroft suggested. "No, actually, it's not been an area in which I've worked. Rather the purview of MI6, not mine."

"Drugs smugglers?" Sherlock suggested.

"With that, you could take your pick," Mycroft sighed. "And yes, probably linked to narcotics coming out of Afghanistan, but also Pakistan, Bolivia, Mexico, Jamaica, India, you name the country, there's probably something making it's way here that shouldn't be. And my responsibility is here, in Great Britain, not in those other countries. It's more likely dealers here who would want something from me, not someone in the country of origin."

"There's no reason someone here couldn't hire an American mercenary, or several," Sherlock pointed out.

"No," Mycroft agreed. "I'm simply saying it does not narrow down the list over-much."

"But it does give us something with which to refine our search," Sherlock said. "Draw up a list for me, so I can get started on looking."

John settled into a chair, drawing his feet up onto the table. He watched Sherlock and Mycroft work – actually working together without bickering for once, probably the only time – and waited. His left shoulder was beginning to ache, but he knew it was probably psychosomatic, from having called so much attention to it, and from what Sherlock had done, unintentionally. He watched Angela stand near the window until Mycroft was done drawing together a lengthy list, and then she took a laptop without comment, uploading the list from him and settling down to work on it as well. John felt superfluous, but kept silent, knowing there was not much else he could do at the moment.

After awhile, Sherlock moved onto the couch and gestured for John to join him, so John did, leaning in to see the screen on which Sherlock was working. He let some of his weight rest very lightly on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock cast a quick glance at him. John met his eyes and that was all – surrounded by Mycroft and Angela, he didn't want to do anything else, because this was probably already being noted, and Mycroft had undoubtedly noticed that something was off between Sherlock and John the moment they'd come through the door. But John didn't want to be upset, he didn't have the energy, nor was now the time.

About half an hour into their lengthy search – Mycroft had a lot of contact with drug lords and drugs traffickers, which was unpleasant, John thought – the phone resting on the coffee table buzzed. Angela had the laptop put aside in a flash and was leaning forward, but Sherlock held up a hand to forestall her, and she stopped, looking angry and anguished. He nodded, then leaned forward himself, answering the call and putting it on speaker again.

"Good evening," Sherlock said smoothly.

"Detective," the man greeted in his convincing English accent. "I trust you've worked out some information since we last spoke?"

"I have," Sherlock agreed. "How long were you in Afghanistan?"

"Less time than your husband, to be sure," the man replied. "Not long actually, a few months. More work in Iraq, you see. All told, better climate there, too. Stability is about the same, on a day-to-day basis, but that means there's always something new to do."

"You can drop the accent, if you wish," Sherlock said, as though extending the man some courtesy.

"Do you know, this is easier now, I've been doing it for so long? Well done on picking up on the remnants of my American accent, though. However, this isn't what I've called about. Agent MacTaggart, are you there?"

"Of course I'm here," Angela replied in a tight voice. "What have you done to David?"

"He's still fairly good," the man said and John felt a cold stone settle into his stomach. The last conversation they'd had, he'd said David was well enough. The change in words didn't pass John by, and nor did it to the other three in the room. He saw Angela's expression freeze and stiffen, her face blanching, her knuckles whitening as she balled her hands into fists.

As though he could sense the tension in the room, the man laughed.

"Don't _worry_, Agent MacTaggart! We're not going to do serious damage. Unless, of course, we don't get what we want."

"_What do you want_?" Angela snarled and John was taken aback by the fury and anguish in her voice, if only because they hadn't yet broken the surface. Within a moment, she'd visibly reined herself back in. Mycroft got up from his position behind the desk and moved silently to sit in the chair beside hers. It was not, John considered, an open expression of support or affection, but it was positively a declaration from Mycroft. Again, he wondered what still went on between them.

"I want to know how your vacation was over the Christmas break."

Angela raised her eyes to exchange a look with Mycroft, puzzled and frustrated. She closed her fingers around the arms of her chair, her jaw tightening, but kept her voice as steady as she could.

"It was lovely, thank you. David had a wonderful time." The last sentence was delivered pointedly.

"Happy to hear it," the caller answered. "I understand the weather in Sicily is quite mild, even in the winter."

"Compared to here, certainly," Angela agreed, the pulse in her temple jumping visibly. John realized suddenly that he had a hand curled tightly around Sherlock's, who was holding his just as hard in return, even though his expression remained mild, inquisitive, listening intently to the conversation.

"I shall have to make a point of going," the caller said casually and John wondered at his ability to simply carry on a conversation with the woman whose son he'd abducted, as if it didn't matter and she didn't care.

"Where's my son, you bastard?" Angela hissed, her composure breaking again. John felt her shock as his own when the line went dead again. She stared at the phone, then dropped her head into her hands. Everyone sat stock still, waiting, then less than a minute later, the phone buzzed again. She snatched it up, then dropped it, leaning back in the chair, holding one hand out in front of her, as if that could remove what she'd seen.

Sherlock picked it up and John saw the picture of David, a new one this time. He was awake, but the glassiness in his eyes told John he was still drugged. But he now had a bruise on his left cheekbone, vivid blue, roughly in the shape of a heel of a hand, as if someone had slapped him hard enough to cause a haematoma. His lower lip was swollen, split and bleeding. His eyes were red and his cheeks streaked with tears.

Attached was the message:

_Consider that for awhile. I'll be back in touch again soon._

John closed his eyes, feeling sick.

Without a word, Sherlock passed the phone to Mycroft and John could feel the hesitation in his husband's movements – whatever victory Sherlock had felt earlier in being able to hold something over his brother had drained away. Mycroft looked at the photo, doing his best to keep his expression impassive, but his eyes glinted dangerously. He put the phone down and shifted as if to move toward Angela, but she held her hand up toward him, shaking her head.

"No, don't," she said, and her voice was remarkably even, but taut, as it about to break. She stayed where she was a moment, then stood up and went into the small bathroom that wasn't off the master bedroom, shutting the door behind her, but not locking it. John heard the water come on but didn't hear any sounds of her being sick. The water from the faucet would, though, drown out the sound of her tears.

He glanced at Sherlock, whose jaw was tight for a moment.

"Afghanistan, Iraq and Italy?" he enquired, turning his gaze to Mycroft. Mycroft gazed back at him a moment, then closed his eyes, looking more defeated than John had ever seen him do. In the past several hours, he'd seen more emotion from Mycroft than he had the entire time he'd known Sherlock. Mostly, he'd only seen exasperation directed at Sherlock, never any hint of weakness.

"You know who it is," Sherlock said.

"Yes," Mycroft replied. He stood, crossing to the window where Angela had been standing not long before, looking out as she had done, his expression stormy.

John felt this at least should have been good news, because if Mycroft knew who it was, then he must have some idea of where David would be. This did not seem to be the case, however.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said in a warning voice.

"There's nothing I can do, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, his tone suddenly blank in a way that sent a chill down John's spine.

"Bollocks," Sherlock retorted. "_You_ can always do something."

"Not this," Mycroft replied. He was silent a moment longer, then turned back, casting his eyes once towards the closed bathroom door. "He's an Italian drug lord, Sherlock. Marco De Luca. We have his granddaughter, Alessandra."

"What?" John demanded. Mycroft held up a hand, asking for patience.

"I mean, we arrested his granddaughter. Here, in England, six months ago. He's been running significant quantities of heroin out of Afghanistan, but she's been a far bigger problem here, bringing cocaine in from Central America. Most of his product moving from Afghanistan doesn't end up here, but in Italy and southern France, as far as we can tell, so our case against him is secondary to the Italians and the French. But Alessandra… Seven years to pin her down, to get agents in close enough to earn her trust."

"And Iraq?" Sherlock pressed.

"Her husband is Iraqi. It's how De Luca moves product in and out of Bagdad. He's still in the wind, no hint of him since we managed to arrest Alessandra. He could be here, in Iraq, in Italy, we have no idea."

"And he wants to trade," John said.

"David for Alessandra, yes," Mycroft sighed. "But I cannot. There is absolutely no way my superiors will let it happen. I could call in all the favours owed to me, and Angela as well, but they will not sanction the release of a drug lord's drug trafficking granddaughter. Even if it is for the sake of our son."

John felt sick, but Sherlock held his brother's gaze firmly.

"I suggest you find a way, Mycroft," he said harshly. "Unless you want the death of yet another innocent child on your hands. Somehow I doubt even you could handle that, not right now."


	8. Chapter 8

John thought the waiting was agonizing.

Sherlock went back to work on the computers, as if he could track down more information, pin down De Luca's whereabouts – which, even if he could, didn't mean anything, because there was no guarantee that David was actually in the same place. But Sherlock needed to work, needed to chase down any leads he could think of, if only to pass the time. His mind was not about to stand still. John understood that.

Angela stayed in the bathroom for some time and Mycroft kept his vigil by the window, barely shifting. His expression was dangerous, more so than John had ever seen, and John felt a stab of unexpected and unfamiliar pity for him.

He thought, too, that he'd hit upon why John and Sherlock, and even Angela, had to be there when the kidnapper called. Why they had waited three days, until after Sherlock had come onto the case, to get into contact with Mycroft. They could easily have done this before, laid their demands out right at the beginning, instead of making him wait.

But all of it, the waiting, the presence of Mycroft's younger brother, of David's mother, even John, and the games, they were to force Mycroft further into a corner. He couldn't deal with this quickly, quietly or easily. This was not in his control, not at all his choice. He was being compelled to handle this in front of others, in front of his younger brother, over whom he'd always exerted power, and Angela, with whom he'd had a previous relationship and shared a child. And Angela would not put the same considerations at the fore that Mycroft would – she could force his hand when it came to the decision. Had it just been Mycroft, John privately thought he'd have said no, despite how difficult it would have been. He couldn't simply do that now, and someone had waited until Sherlock was there to witness it.

John was appalled and utterly impressed. And disgusted by himself for being so impressed. But this De Luca had placed Mycroft very nicely into a trap, surrounding him with vulnerabilities he could not escape.

It was incredibly cruel.

John thought even Mycroft didn't quite deserve that, no matter what else he'd done in the past, if only because it meant David's life hung in the balance, and David was innocent of any of his parents' wrong doings. It frightened John that a child could be used in this manner, as though he were a bargaining chip, some term for an agreement.

When Angela came out of the bathroom, Mycroft took her into the bedroom to speak to her in private. Sherlock glanced up when the door closed, then met John's eyes, but didn't say anything. John strongly suspected his husband had worked out why they were there, given that John himself had done so. What Sherlock thought of this, John couldn't tell. His husband's expression was shuttered in a way John had never learned to read. He was keeping everything out, but there was a flash of something – guilt – when he looked at John. Not at the situation, but at what had happened in the vaults. But he said nothing and nor did John. He would deal with it later if need be, when this was over with, although he was having a hard time imaging how it could end, or at least how it could end well.

Mycroft and Angela stayed cloistered in the bedroom for some time and John dozed on the couch, his head dropping into the crook of his arm, listening to the sounds of Sherlock working continuously behind him. When he raised his head again, he grimaced; this time, his left shoulder did hurt from being kinked at a bad angle for awhile. He stood and stretched, looking out over Edinburgh, which was cast in darkness now, alive with light. Somewhere out there, people were having fun, enjoying themselves, partaking in a pint in a pub, laughing, joking, appreciating the weekend. He wished he were.

And, somewhere out there, there was a scared and injured ten year old who desperately needed their help.

John wondered what help they could give him now, if Mycroft didn't think he could arrange anything. He wondered if that's why he and Angela were still in the bedroom, trying to work things out with their superiors, or if they were giving themselves some privacy to deal with this terror as David's parents, taking whatever brief cover they could from John and Sherlock.

John rubbed his eyes and then noticed Sherlock watching him, having stopped his work for a moment. He circled round the couch and behind the desk, and Sherlock reached out, hesitated, then snaked an arm around John's waist. John let him rest his head against John's hip and side for a moment, then leaned down, pressing their foreheads together. Sherlock closed his eyes.

"I am sorry," he said quietly.

"You're an idiot," John replied, but with a small hint of a smile in his voice. Sherlock's lips twitched at that and he opened his eyes again, meeting John's across the short distance that separated them.

"I'm an idiot," he agreed.

"At least you know that," John said, then pressed his lips to Sherlock's forehead. "Back to work. What've you found?"

"Loads, but nothing pertinent," Sherlock replied.

John let Sherlock get back to work, not at all hopeful he'd find anything, and curled back up on the couch, staring at Sherlock's dark and silent phone on the coffee table. He waited, not knowing what else to do. There was a small brass clock on the mantle opposite him and he watched the second hand click forward, growing more and more aware of the ticking sound until it started to get on his nerves. John tried to ignore it, but it worked its way into his brain so that he could not distract himself from it. Finally, he heaved himself from the couch and crossed over the mantle and the gas-powered fireplace, currently off, and fished the battery out of the back of the clock, putting the disassembled time piece back on the mantle.

"_Thank_ you," Sherlock said from behind him and John had to repress a smile, given the circumstances. He'd had no idea it was bothering Sherlock.

He reclaimed his seat on the couch as Mycroft and Angela emerged from the bedroom. Sherlock didn't look up and John was glad – he did not want to see whatever expression his husband was wearing at that. Both of them just looked worn, though, Angela's eyes red and face blotchy, Mycroft paler than normal. They sat down in chairs next to one another, but John could read nothing in their body language past the exhaustion. Whatever relationship they may or may not have had, they were not displaying anything John could read. He wondered if Sherlock could.

Minutes crept past, turning into hours. Angela finally folded herself up in her chair and dozed, and John nodded off again, his head, which he'd had propped in his hand, sliding down until it was resting on the arm of the couch, his arm curled so that his hand rested on the top of his head. Even in his sleep, he could feel that this was uncomfortable but couldn't quite bring himself to wake up.

Until he felt someone else's fingers in his hair and managed to blink his eyes open. Across from him, Angela was awake again, but was staring blankly at the ceiling with red-rimmed eyes, and Mycroft had taken up position at the window again, hands clasped loosely behind him. He looked for all the world as though he were contemplating and enjoying the view, his body at ease, unless one looked at his face. John tried not to.

He tilted his own head back to see Sherlock standing behind him, running his right hand through John's hair. He stopped when he saw John watching him and John sat up, then stood, trying to work out the cricks in his back. He wished Sherlock could rub it for him, but that was for a time when things weren't as they were now, when they were at home, or at least alone, and working the tension out of John's muscles could lead to so many other things.

Plus, his shoulder hurt, too. He gave it a few experimental rolls and wished he'd brought some ibuprofen.

Sherlock went back to the computers and the rest of them went back to waiting. John checked his phone once in awhile, trying to delay as much as he could between doing so, then wished he had something to do, something useful, something that wasn't just waiting for a phone call they had no control over.

When it finally came, he was actually glad. He saw Sherlock stand and gesture to Mycroft – if they'd sorted out some system, John had been asleep when it had happened.

Angela redirected her attention immediately, staring at the phone as if she wanted to pounce on it, and Mycroft moved past her, turning it on.

"We're all here," he said, settling himself into a chair. Sherlock joined John on the couch, but sat on the other end. John rested a hand between them on the cushions and Sherlock covered it with his own, absently rubbing John's wedding ring as he did so, as if reminding himself that John was, in fact, his husband and was not, in fact, going anywhere.

"Good," the American with the British accent said cheerfully, as if he were joining them for an evening out and was pleased to find they'd all been able to come. "Glad to hear it. I assume by now you've figured out what we want?"

"I have," Mycroft said. Angela was still watching the phone, her expression murderous and desperate. John had no doubts that, had she known where to go, everyone surrounding her son would be dead by now. How hard must it be, he wondered, not just to go through this as a parent, feeling helpless, but as someone who is trained to deal with these kind of things and has been forced into immobility? Torture, he thought. This was torture.

"I want something first, however," Mycroft said. "Let me speak to David."

"Certainly," the man said. "You had only to ask."

At this, Angela's nostril's flared, and John curled his fingers around Sherlock's, who tightened his own hand around John's. John could hear some sort of shuffling in the background, then the kidnapper said:

"David? Your father wants to speak to you."

John's eyes snapped back to Mycroft, as did Sherlock's, and the older man stiffened, one hand tightening on the arm of his chair, but he kept his expression smooth, with a lot of effort, John could tell. After ten years and only having met David twice, after agreeing to father a child only out of practical considerations and because an appropriate woman he knew wanted one, after being removed, unknown, unimportant, his hand had been forced, his identity revealed in a way John knew full well was the last means he would have chosen.

All the choice had been stripped away from Mycroft in this.

_They must really know him,_ John thought absently.

"Hello?" a small Scottish-accented voice quavered over the other end of the line and Angela pressed an open palm to her mouth to keep from making any noise, tears suddenly streaking her cheeks. She reached out with her other hand as if to grab the phone, then pulled herself back with considerable effort.

_Oh God,_ John thought. _He sounds so young._

They couldn't let him die, he realized. Mycroft had to find a way to get his superiors to agree to Alessandra's release. No matter the cost.

"Hello, David," Mycroft said, his voice level, even if his expression was not. "My name is Mycroft Holmes. Do you remember me?"

There was a pause.

"Yes," David said, in a shaking voice. Crying, John thought. Either he was currently or just had been. It twisted something inside of him, made him feel sick. And they were making Mycroft do this in front of John and Sherlock, and Angela. It seemed like a mistake, but they had calculated so well thus far.

"You're my mum's friend, right?" David continued.

"That's right," Mycroft replied.

"Why are they calling you my father?"

For a second, Mycroft closed his eyes, rage passing so quickly across his face John thought he may have imagined it, but a glance at Sherlock's expression told him this was not so.

"Because I am, David," he replied.

There was silence on the other end of the line and Angela looked like she might scream or throw up. Mycroft was watching the phone intently, as though he might see David through it.

"Is my mum there?", David asked and Angela nodded, moving her hand from her mouth to answer, but Mycroft held a hand up to her quickly, shaking his head at her, the only time their eyes had met during the conversation so far.

"Yes, David, she is, but I need you to talk to me right now, all right?"

There was another pause and John tried to imagine what it must be like, at ten, taken away from his home and mother, introduced to a father he'd never known about, suddenly, out of nowhere. Probably inconceivable, especially since David was drugged, or had been. Even if the drugs had worn off, he'd probably still be disoriented, given his age and his circumstances.

"David?" Mycroft asked.

"Okay," David agreed, reluctant, his voice shaking.

"Can you tell me where you are?" Mycroft asked.

"No," David replied and John heard fresh tears in his voice. "I don't know. In a room with some men. It's concrete, and cold."

"All right," Mycroft said, keeping his voice calm, stable, for the boy's benefit. "Can you tell me who you're with?"

There was a hesitation, and John heard a voice in the background saying something.

"Um, three men. Two of them say they're Americans, but they don't sound like Americans. They sound like you. With English accents. And another one, and old man, he's Italian."

"Are they hurting you?" Mycroft asked.

_Much_, John thought. _Are they hurting you much?_

"They hit me," David said and Angela groaned, dropping her head into her hands. "And they won't let me eat anything."

"Are they giving you anything to drink?"

"Water. And juice."

"Good," Mycroft said. "All right. David, you must listen to me. We're going to get you back here to your mother, but I need to speak with the older Italian gentleman, do you understand? I need you to ask him for me to speak to me."

"Can I talk to my mum? Please?" David begged. Angela gave Mycroft a pleading look but Mycroft shook his head, once.

"Soon," he promised. "I need to talk to Signore De Luca first."

There was another long pause, and David didn't say anything else. A moment later, a new voice was on the end of the line, smooth, composed, with a sleek Italian accent but impeccable English.

"Mycroft, hello," De Luca said, almost pleasantly.

"Marco," Mycroft returned.

_Do they bloody know each other?_ John thought, stunned. Probably, yes, he decided. Mycroft's world couldn't only be composed of high ranking government agents and government bureaucrats. It must also be composed of high ranking criminals. These categories probably often overlapped, he realized.

"Detective Holmes? Doctor Watson? Are you there?" the Italian man asked.

"Yes," Sherlock and John replied in unison.

"Good, welcome. So nice to have family around, isn't it, Mycroft?"

John felt his blood go cold and Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged a glance that was full of history, animosity, impatience. For a moment, John got a flash of just how much Mycroft disliked having his brother witness this, but then it was gone, smoothed over.

"Always," Mycroft said. Lied.

"Where is she, Mycroft?" De Luca asked. His tone was light, but John heard the steel underneath it.

"She's in prison, Marco, you know that."

"Such a shame, to think of my beautiful Alessa in one of your dreary English prisons. Or in prison at all. You know my terms, Mycroft."

"And you know what I have to say to them, Marco."

John's eyes snapped to his brother-in-law; he couldn't be bloody serious.

"Your own son, Mycroft?"

"You know our stance in negotiating with terrorists," Mycroft replied. John's eyes flared and he bit his tongue, literally, to keep himself from saying anything. Any contribution he made would only make this worse – if it were possible for things to be any worse. He tightened his fingers more on Sherlock's and fought to keep his silence.

"I'm hardly a terrorist, Mycroft. Terrorists aim to kill or injure people. I'm a businessman. Why dispose of my customers? Would good would it do me? I provide a service and a fine range of products for discerning clients. I have no interest in harming anyone."

Again, John wanted to interject. He'd seen the effects of hard drugs, both long-term and acute, on more than one patient. Products? Services? They were death, destruction of the brain, ripping lives apart. He'd seen what it could do to families, not just individuals. And he had seen, first hand, during an autopsy, what it could do to a human brain.

"Nevertheless, I cannot let Alessandra go. English law is quite specific regarding the trafficking of narcotics in this country. You know that as well as I do. I have no power to release her."

"I very much doubt that, Mycroft," De Luca replied. "And I am disinclined to believe that you will not make this trade, your son's life for my granddaughter's. It's a matter of family, after all. I won't be so callous as to threaten your brother – if only because I believe any attempt to take him would end rather badly for me, since he appears quite clever and I'm given to understand he has some powerful friends. More powerful than you, perhaps? But I do miss my granddaughter. She is the light of my life, as they say."

"You know I've had very little contact with David," Mycroft replied. "And that he didn't know I was his father until you informed him."

"I do know that," De Luca replied easily. "But I also know Agent MacTaggart is there, and that she will not want to see him harmed further. And I am aware of your past relationship with her, regardless of whatever arrangements you have at present. Do you really want to see a mother lose her only son? Just as a grandfather has lost his only granddaughter?"

"What would you have me say, Marco? I cannot let Alessandra go. She was arrested and convicted here. She broke federal British law. If I release her, she'll go back to what she was doing, and I shall arrest her again, and then will we find ourselves in the same situation once more."

"I assure you, Mycroft, if you send Alessandra home, she will never set foot on British soil again."

"Yes, but where else will she go next? France? America? Australia?"

John could almost hear De Luca shrug.

"If she does, let the French, or Americans, or Australians deal with her. Perhaps she'll choose to remain in Italy. Regardless, she will never be your problem again. That is all I want from you, Mycroft. Such a simple, solution, really. You return my granddaughter, and you will never see her nor be bothered by her again. And you get your son back."

John shot daggers at Mycroft. He had to do this, didn't he?

Did he?

The woman he'd be releasing was an international drugs trafficker, granddaughter of an obviously high placed Italian drug lord. What kind of choice was this? As a doctor, John was appalled at the thought of letting someone like her go, with those kind of connections, those intentions, those resources. Letting her go would only give her the chance to pick up where she left off, continue ruining lives, continue tearing people and families apart.

The man in him didn't care – if it came down to a choice between potential lives and the actual life of a missing boy, he knew what choice he'd make.

But he wasn't Mycroft. He was less practical, more human. He hadn't had the years of training, of experience, of detachment, that were necessary to make this kind of decision. How did one place a single life over many? John understood this requirement from his days in the army, but he'd never been asked to choose whether or not a child died. When he'd been forced to make this choice in triage, it was almost always on soldiers who knew the risks when they enlisted, who were adults, who had made a choice of their own.

David had no choices.

And now he was captive not only to a drug lord who wanted someone back, but to a father who had to make decisions for the good of England. Not for the good of his family.

For a moment, John hated Mycroft, more than he'd ever done, more than he thought possible. He was going to make the hard choice. He was going to end a short life in order to do his duty, to protect untold other lives.

Then he nodded.

"Very well," Mycroft said tersely. "I will need forty-eight hours to get Alessandra released. You will need to give me details for the exchange location."

"Agreed," De Luca said and John heard no hint of triumph or elation in his voice, just satisfaction, as if he'd just successfully concluded a favourable business deal. Which, John thought, may not be too far off the mark for what he thought of people. Not his own family, likely, but everyone else.

His customers.

"Take the phone off from speaker and let us discuss details," De Luca said. "And then perhaps Agent MacTaggart would like to have a word or two with her son."


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock had them out of the hotel, with their overnight bags and passports – which thankfully they wouldn't need – and to the train station almost as soon as Mycroft was speaking alone to De Luca, arranging matters for the exchange of hostages. When he got right down to it, that was precisely what it was.

And he had no intention of being involved. Nor of having John involved, even only peripherally.

It had been less than twenty-four hours, but he'd accomplished what he'd come to Edinburgh to do, and he had no desire to extend his stay. He knew John was exhausted, and he himself was feeling the effects of too much adrenaline suddenly no longer needed, and lack of sleep, since he hadn't slept much the night before, for entirely different reasons. Certainly more enjoyable ones.

And he had no interest in this apparent nephew of his. Let Mycroft deal with the reality that his son knew who he was – he had chosen this route, and Sherlock had not. He hadn't seen it necessary to inform his brother that he had a nephew, or inform his son as to his identity, so Sherlock felt no connection, nor guilt about it.

He simply wanted to go home.

He purchased first class tickets for himself and John on the next overnight train to London and installed them in a pair of seats away from the other passengers. Thankfully, their cabin was sparsely populated, only single businessmen or businesswomen travelling overnight, all of them quiet, most of them more interested in sleeping so as to be alert in the morning when their train pulled into London and they headed off for myriad meetings, lunches, negotiations, talks. They ignored him and John, and Sherlock happily ignored them in turn. One or two of them were working, but considerately not using their overhead seat lights, so the train car was faintly illuminated here and there by the faint blue glow of laptop screens or iPhones.

John fell asleep on Sherlock's shoulder shortly after they left Edinburgh. It was uncomfortable, and Sherlock could feel his arm falling asleep, the numb feeling spreading from his shoulder down to the tips of his fingers, but he didn't shift or try to adjust John's position.

Given how he'd slipped up in the vaults, without even considering what John might think of his examination of his shoulder wound and the questions, Sherlock was quite grateful that John was sleeping against him.

He disliked making that kind of mistake, not least because he really ought to know better by now. He'd been married to John for two and a half years, and they'd been together for a year longer than that. Slipping up in that way meant he wasn't thinking, that he could make errors.

That he was human.

Blast, if John caught onto that, he might snicker.

He wondered if John would be all right, if there would be some repercussions to this he could not foresee, even him, the world's only consulting detective. He ran through various scenarios in his admittedly fatigued mind, but the problem with – or benefit to – John was that he kept Sherlock guessing at times when Sherlock thought he had him pegged.

It was both endearing and maddening, but much more so the former than the latter.

How dull life would be, without John. How much duller without Mycroft, but Sherlock thought he might be able to handle, even relish, that kind of boredom.

He kept his eyes on the window, not quite able to see the darkened scenery speeding by outside their carriage, and tried not to think at all. This was a difficult prospect. But with each minute that increased the distance between himself and Mycroft, he felt himself unwinding, if only a little. He doubted his brother even cared that he and John had gone – he had much more important things to worry about, like getting an international drugs dealer out of prison in exchange for his ten-year-old son.

Let him deal with those complications. It would likely keep him out of Sherlock's life a lot longer.

At one point, John woke up, stirring slightly. Sherlock glanced over, meeting John's eyes, which were much darker in the very dim lighting of the car. John stayed leaning against him for a moment, then stood up and stretched, and went off to find the loo. Sherlock had just gotten his arm to wake up again, all pins and needles and stabbing, itching _sensation_, before John came back and settled against him one more. Sherlock bit his lip – he knew he had not a leg to stand on when it came to physical discomfort that night.

"I didn't think he'd do it," John said, very quietly, after a few minutes.

"Nor did I," Sherlock admitted, still gazing out the dark window, trying to at least spot the differentiation between land and sky, but he could not.

"It would have been practical not to," John said.

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed. Practical, yes. Acceptable? Perhaps not. Tolerable? Not at all.

"Maybe he's more human than we're giving him credit for."

Sherlock turned his head back, resting his forefinger against his lips and thumb against his chin to hide the small smile that threatened to tug the corners of his mouth.

"I shouldn't go that far, John," he replied.

"Mycroft Holmes, world's best dad?" John suggested. "We could buy him a mug."

"You're daft. Tell me again why I put up with you?"

"Because you're madly in love with me and can't imagine a single moment without me?"

"Hmm," Sherlock said. "Yes. Good job you reminded me, I'd quite forgotten."

John chuckled quietly, then shifted, so Sherlock's arm was momentarily freed, then pinned again.

"Is your arm asleep?" he asked, sounding concerned.

"It _was_. Now it's only painful."

"Mmm. Good." John leaned more of his weight against Sherlock and the consulting detective feigned a groan. "I'm going back to sleep. Wake me when we get there. You should sleep too."

"You're always on me to sleep," Sherlock complained.

"No, sometimes I'm just on you," John replied.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but this time couldn't keep the smile from appearing on his lips.

"Go to sleep, John, you're a menace to the civility of this carriage."

"You need to sleep, too, Sherlock. Your arm's asleep, so you're already part way there."

"Fine," Sherlock said, resting his head against John's. "Far be it for me to ignore the advice of a doctor."

John snorted.

"Yes, that will be the day," he replied, then closed his eyes again. Within minutes, he'd fallen back to sleep, his breathing deep and rhythmic, his body warm against Sherlock's, if somewhat uncomfortable.

Sherlock did not fall asleep for quite some time, almost content just to sit there – except for his numb arm – against John, but unable to still his mind. He had no real sense of what would happen now with Mycroft, and this was unpleasant. Not that he normally did, but he had seen a lot more of his brother than Mycroft had ever revealed before, even if he'd only seen that because Mycroft's hand had been forced. It changed some perceptions, but Sherlock was uncertain if he wanted that to mean he needed to change his attitude toward his brother.

He still very much did not want Mycroft's interference, nor his monitoring, nor his protection. He wondered now if he had more leverage with which to negotiate that.

Perhaps, he thought, he'd simply wait to see what happened. Mycroft had by and large left him alone, except for keeping a distant eye on him, for the past year and a half. Given this new situation with David, he may be occupied for quite some time, and Sherlock had a feeling there would be some repercussions for the exchange of Alessandra De Luca and David. Which was part of the reason he'd left with John in such a hurry – he had no desire to be part of those consequences.

Somewhere ahead of them, in the darkness, London lay waiting. Sherlock closed his eyes, leaning his head against John's again. Whatever came next, at very least, he wouldn't be alone, as evidenced by the doctor sleeping against him. And he'd done Mycroft a service, whether or not his brother would like to admit it, regardless of how it played out for Mycroft at higher levels. David would be returned safely, and Sherlock could use that as a bargaining chip, if need be. Carefully, since Mycroft would probably still be sore over the use of David for negotiation, but he would also be unlikely to forget that he now owed Sherlock.

The idea that his brother was in his debt, really in his debt, possibly for the first time, cheered Sherlock somewhat. It was nice to see the tables turned, and made it possible to relax somewhat was the train raced through the night, shifting gently on the tracks, lulling him toward sleep. Settling more closely against John, he closed his eyes, and let the motion and the warmth from John's body carry him away.

(**End**)


End file.
